


Sprited Away

by Chaos_Elemental, fennfics



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Assorted Jail Cells, Bad Cooking, Blood and Gore, Body Image, Campfires, Camping, Choose Your Own Adventure, Cooking, Dogs, Don't Do Staking Kids, Duelling, Elemental Magic, F/M, Failed Stealth Rolls, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fifth Age, Food, Fruit, Gen, Handholding, Hypnosis, Interrogation, Interspecies Romance, Kidnapping, Language Barrier, Latin, M/M, Military Training, Monsters, Music, Musicians, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Second Person, Religion, Religious Guilt, Rescue Missions, Runescape Quest: One Piercing Note, Runescape Quest: Tourist Trap, Saradominists, Sea Shanty II, Seduction, Sorceress's Garden, Theft, There Is Only One Bed, Time Travel, Zarosians, cabbage, dark wizards, lots of walking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 138
Words: 82,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Elemental/pseuds/Chaos_Elemental, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennfics/pseuds/fennfics
Summary: A young Zarosian soldier from the Third Age, imprisoned in Kharid-et, finds himself transported to the Fifth Age. Stranded there with nothing but the clothes on his back, he has to figure out a way to survive in this unfamiliar world.A Choose Your Own Adventure story, with different paths by different authors. Updates once a fortnight.May/may not contain:Camels, strykewyrms, goblins, White Knights, forbidden nun love, dancing, debauchery, kebabs, Mahjarrat, tambourines, death, regrettable Duel Arena stakes, pointless cameos, daring rooftop chases, cabbage crimes, and/or humorous translation mishaps.LATEST UPDATE (Jan 30):In the depths of the Kharidian desert,Quint finds a mysterious tower; in another timeline,Ali the Wise reveals a startling new development.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: Interactive Fiction/Actual ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> (Note on ratings/warnings: most of what you'll read here will go no higher than G or T with no archive warnings. Any content outside this will be skippable and warned for: potential warnings are Major Character Death and Graphic Depictions of Violence, with ratings going up to M.)
> 
> Opening chapter (and the character Quintus Stoke) by fennfics (formerly Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun).
> 
> (this probably isn't how time sprites work, but _I do what I want_ )

You've always felt like you were born at the wrong time. In the wrong place. The wrong _something,_ anyway, because who the hell could look at your life and conclude that this was how it should've gone?

Quintus Stoke, born in Senntisten at the end of an era. Fifth child of five, always the tiniest, barely fifteen when your family fled from the flames. Spent the next few years clinging to existence on the struggling fringes of the empire. Came of age, cut your long hair to army regulation and got taught how to fight for a lost cause. It was pretty much all you could do with your life, after all.

Had it really been a crime to try and make the best of it? You hadn't tasted palathai since Senntisten, and once you'd caught a whiff of Sergeant Culpepper's dessert on the desert breeze, there really was no stopping you. The kitchen had been unlocked, the chef had been distracted, and...

... and a week of meagre prison rations have almost been bland enough to wipe that fleeting taste of sweetness from your memory. _Almost._ It'd take a hell of a long sentence to make you regret what you did. So far, you've succeeded in distracting yourself from the clammy heat of your cell, immersing your mind in times when palathai was on the menu every week.

You're almost too lost in your memory to notice the flicker of light. Once you _do_ notice, you wish you hadn't. Some praetor playing tricks, is your immediate deduction; wouldn't be the first time you'd seen such a 'prank', though still the first to target you personally. You try to ignore it as best you can, wondering when it'll 'grow into a Chthonian' and try to 'gobble you up'.

Come on.

Get it over with.

But no, the thing stubbornly refuses. It starts to dance in mid-air, in fact, carving bright trails in the air behind it. It reminds you of the flame dances you'd see in the parades, yet this flame's dancing of its own accord.

You don't want to trust it, and yet something about it draws you nearer...

A jolt of energy right through you! You hadn't even seen the brief contact it made with your fingertips, and yet that shiver of joy made _sure_ that the moment was known. Could this still be a trick? Someone lifting your spirits before crashing them to the ground? In all honesty, you couldn't care less! You've been deprived of joys like this for a week, or even years, so you'll happily take what you can get.

You raise your elbow and it skims across your forearm, rippling the hairs and leaving goosebumps where it went. Ha! It dips under your palm now, then _phases itself right through_ , with a glowing circle left on your hand as split-second evidence of where it had been. You shiver with glee.

You feel weightless. You feel as if you could fly.

You do.

Your toes are gracefully lifted from the floor, giddy, wiggling against the open air that seems to be your domain now. There's a rush of thrill through your feet, knowing the ground can't limit them any more. The light is just as happy as you are: it spins a bright spiral up around you as fast as the blink of an eye, then falls slightly in a dainty arc to meet your gaze. The two of you make eye contact, and you simply can't help but grin.

You're rising! The ceiling is as meaningless as the floor. With the help of your new friend, you transcend it all.

You stop quite knowing _what_ you're rising through. Does that matter? Why would it? You have some vague consciousness of passing through something solid, and yet your light soars through it in giggling defiance of any barrier it might have been. You float through a backflip for the sake of it, and your dance partner spins a thousand rapid circles to match.

You glide right up to the ground, greeted by the dappled pink of a sunset. You see the desert sand under you, and when your feet clear the surface... they suddenly come to a rest, solid sand beneath the soles.

The light does one final loop in the air, and then dives into the ground.

"No!" You lunge after it -- you fall awkwardly onto the ground, knocking the breath from your ribcage, nothing grasped in your fingers but sand. That, too, falls away from you. All that's left is to shakily come to your feet, brushing the sand from your filthy prison clothes as well as you can manage.

You stare at the ground where it disappeared in the fading hope that it might come back for you. It takes a good while for you to bitterly accept that it won't. You decide you'll make that the last time you ever try befriending a dancing light.

In the time that you've wasted with staring, the sun's been sinking in the sky. Not long now before it dips below the horizon. The one thing worse than the heat of a Kharidian day is the deathly cold that follows it -- the temperature's at a nice midpoint for now, but you'll _really_ have to find yourself some shelter.

You look around, and...

Where _are_ you? You're still in the desert, alright, but the entrance to Kharid-et is nowhere to be seen. Great sandstone walls block off one direction; opposite them, the desert stretches on. To one side of you, scattered buildings seem to form into a city. The other... another stone building, grand and tall, seemingly religious if the four-point stars on the walls are anything to go by.

 _Saradominists? Building a temple_ here? _Cheeky._

Your mind is on the verge of uncontrollable speculation, an unstoppable wave of possibilities that -- if you let it crash over you -- could drown everything else out of your mind. It'd bring on questions, worries, fears beyond anything you think you can handle right now. So you don't let it. You force it back. You breathe.

For now, you're gonna have to think practically, and shelter will have to be your first priority. You could try your luck in the city, see if you could 'gather' enough money for one night's lodging... or at least find a spot outdoors that's not _too_ cold. Or you could swallow your Zarosian pride and convince the priests at that temple to show you charity for the night. Is that something Saradominists value? It better be.  
  
---  
[Go to The City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56462356)  
[Go to The Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56463418)


	2. Go to The City

You decide to head to the city, on the basis of both pride and pragmatism. Better a possible wretched hive of scum and villainy than a wretched hive of scum and villainy that’s Saradominist to boot. 

The familiar smell of urbanism hits you like a hammer as you approach. Smoke, cooking meats, the acrid tang of the tannery, camel dung… long ago you would have wrinkled your nose as such a odiferous mix, but the scent of civilization after all that time in the damned pit is sweeter than all the rosewater in Senntisten.

As you approach, you get a better view of the buildings. Towering above the high buildings, but seemingly built out of the same sandstone, is a fortresslike edifice. Tall, thin towers topped by round domes rise from it, and you can see the greenery of several date palms swaying in the breeze behind its walls.

Your mouth waters — at least, it waters as much as it can, considering the lack of drinking you’ve done in the last 24 hours. Figuring out where exactly you’ve landed can wait. You need to hydrate.

The closer you get to the main gate, the more you realize how truly out of your element you are. The people are still people, thank goodness, but the clothes they wear are strange — flowing white robes, faded and strange streetwear, capes of every colour…. Wherever that _thing_ had dumped you, it’s clearly far from Kharid-et.

The question is: Where? You don’t know of any other deserts, besides where Kharid-et was situated, and the Kharidian wastes to the south of you. Was this one of the Menaphite settlements you’d heard some of the legionnaires talk about? But those had been, as far as you knew, some dusty tents and buildings hidden in the dunes. Not an entire city...

You pass through the main gate, the urban smell becoming almost overwhelming. Dense chatter floats up around you as you enter, and you half-listen to it. However, with growing horror, you realize that you don’t understand any of it. 

You can pick up a few words here and there, but they quickly sink back into the soup of linguistic confusion. Alien vocabulary assaults your ears as you stumble aimlessly through the city. Lumbridge? Karamja? What was an Arma crossbow? Why had someone wearing a paper crown knocked into you and called you a noob? What _was_ this place?

You back up under the veranda of a nearby building, catching your breath and taking in the overwhelming scene around you. It’s clear that this is a trading hub of some sort. The locals all wear the same, loose desert clothing, while no two outsiders look the same, between the strange hats and brightly-hued armour.

Wait. A dark, metallic shine catches your eye. You need to look again, not believing your eyes. But, sure enough, it’s truly there; a tribunus, wearing the armour of Torva. They’re standing in the shade of a palm, consulting what looks to be a map.

Normally, you wouldn’t dream of approaching a superior officer — especially considering the state of your attire. However, desperate times call for desperate measures.

If you can get their attention, you might be able to convince them to send you back to an outpost… and, if you play your cards right, then you might just end up someplace where your dessert-related transgressions in Kharid-et are unknown.

You approach the officer, straightening your stance. You stand in front of them and salute, your chest puffed out proudly.

“Ave, Tribunus,” you say. “Munifex Quintus Stoke, of the Kharid —, er Kharyll outpost. I seem to have been teleported here by the enemy. Awaiting orders, sir.”

The officer tilts their head. “???” They say, their reply incomprehensible. “??? ??? ?? ???? people ???? ??? ??????? servers? ? ???? ????????? ????? ??????”

“Er…” You mutter a curse under your breath. Either this officer is foreign, or is some imposter wearing some pilfered equipment. Either way, they’re of no use to you.

You shuffle back into the crowd, your stomach empty, your mouth tasting of glue, and with the feeling of despair beginning to settle on your shoulders. You need shelter for the night. Or, at the very least, something to eat and drink. Usually money would supersede these conversations, but you have nothing to your name. Begging is out of the question — beggars in Senntisten never lasted for more than a day, thanks to the noble efforts of the praetorians. Who knows what horrors lay in wait for mendicants in this strange place? 

As you pass by a fruit stall, you see boxes of figs, dates, nuts and pomegranates shining ripely in the dying light of the evening. You lick your lips. The merchant in charge of the wares seems to be enthralled in a haggling session with a local woman, their conversation getting progressively louder in the sea of market chatter. Nobody seems to be watching — if you’re quick enough, you might be able to snag something before the stall owner notices…

At the same time, a glint of gold catches your eye. You spot a man, wearing a gleaming white platebody, looking distractedly at a stall full of games and carved figurines. A jewel-embedded necklace is sticking tantalizingly out of the satchel at his hip. You’re pretty sure you can snatch it away without him knowing. It’ll be a bigger risk, but it comes with a greater reward than a measly piece of fruit. 

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Steal from Stall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811916)  
[Pickpocket Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812132)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'm Chaos_Elemental, and I'll be your co-author for this story. Check back here on Wednesdays for updates and more choices! Just like in life, there are no wrong decisions. 
> 
> Unless that decision is to stake at the Duel Arena. That is wrong. Always.


	3. Go to The Temple

You picture yourself as a legatus, making the decisions that shape an empire.

You survey the city, which clogs up far more than its fair share of the horizon yet still looks crowded beyond belief. Senntisten had a logical structure to it, flowing through straight channels, keeping everyone neatly partitioned. This city? You can hardly imagine how it has room to breathe. It could suffocate you easily, confuse and overwhelm you as you just try to reach one simple goal.

Why overextend your limited resources trying to storm that bloated city? Not when there’s a simple temple there, the perfect target for your army of one. Because as much as you fancy yourself a potential Legatus Maximus, worthy of an army at your heel… the current reality is a lot less pleasant.

Trying to swallow as much pride as you can stomach, you resign yourself to your task: throwing yourself on the questionable mercy of Saradomin.

You’ve seen Saradominst missionaries before -- everyone has. They all looked the same to you under those plain, colourless robes; you certainly can’t say they ever caught your eye. If the Saradominists are “winning”, can't their priesthood at the very least flaunt that fact a little? Even under constant attack, _your_ priests still know the power of bold, rich colours.

So naturally, you’ve never seen the appeal. Neither have your friends or your family. But you still hear stories every so often: someone’s aunt or cousin, or even a fellow soldier, hearing one too many of those plain-robed promises. Packing their bags in the middle of the night. Abandoning you.

You never got that desperate. You’d like to think that’s still the case. You may be seeking them out now, but you know who you are and what you believe; Saradominist help will just be a means to an end.

You won’t spend the rest of your life in plain robes, you know that much for sure.

The arduous journey across the sand is certainly helping you play the part. You already looked like a mess, but the sweatier your prison clothes become, the more the sand grits itself against your bare feet, the more your skin burns in the sun's last strong rays… you’re about to be their perfect pilgrim. How could they resist you?

Night has almost fallen by the time you arrive at the temple. You never really got used to how quickly the heat would evaporate -- not even when you had proper clothes to wear, and certainly not when in prison rags. The sweat coating your skin is working against you now, leeching the heat from your body. You’re shivering when you fall at the open gate.

One of the Saradominist faithful (a young woman, dressed in robes not dissimilar from a missionary’s) happens to see you there, the cruel sand lapping around your useless curled-up form. Her mouth falls open and she rushes over, crouching over you in concern. Her fingers feel like furnaces on your skin.

She calls -- “Esther!” -- and you barely hear the footsteps of another woman, rushing over to join her. The second woman, presumably Esther, looks down at you from under a heavy white hood that overshadows her face entirely.

Her tone, when she speaks, is clearly worried. What worries you, though, is the fact that you can’t understand a word she’s saying. In all your grand strategising, you’d completely forgotten to account for the language barrier.

Well, you’re not about to be speaking right now. Instead, you’re getting a blanket draped over you. You’re being carried by several hands over to a room -- a _warm_ room! And then you’re left there to rest. The bed, though hardly comfortable, is leagues better than the one in your prison cell… and infinitely better than freezing to death in cold sand.

* * *

You wake to the sound of shouting, not for the first time in your life. Never the most pleasant awakening, but it seems you still managed a good enough rest beforehand. You come to your senses and listen in.

The wall between you and the two raised voices does nearly nothing to dampen the sound of their argument. No mistaking _that_ tone of voice, no matter what language it's in. You don't doubt for a second that the argument's about you, but a few words are close enough to Infernal to understand ("dormitory", "tempt", "carnal"... even "demon", worryingly)... and the gist of it becomes clear.

Someone isn’t buying your humble pilgrim act. At least the fact that she's having to argue suggests there's still _someone_ on your side.

The main belligerent stops silent after a sentence which she ends (very loudly) with the word "in". In _here?_ Heavy footsteps out of the room, turning their way towards you, and then the door swings open: one priest marches in with a serious point to make. The other, an older woman with a heavy Saradomin star hanging from her neck, sends a look of embarrassed apology in your direction. You give her the slightest smile in thanks.

The argumentative one carries right on at the older woman in the doorway, occasionally making wild gestures in your direction -- seems like you’re more of a prop than a person right now. The older priest is making slow inches forward from the doorway, her hands spread palm-out in front of her. You hear her say one word repeatedly, trying to make a gentle, soothing eye contact each time: "Anna. _Anna..._ "

Anna finally slows, pausing to breathe for a second or few. Now with a more careful tone, she asks a question of her superior. You don’t need words to grasp her meaning: _what are we going to do?_

The elder takes the opportunity to take charge -- and for better or worse, she wants to hear what _you_ have to say. Calmly walking to your bedside, she kneels down beside you and speaks softly. (You can _feel_ the intensity of Anna’s glare.) It's clear you don't understand a word, but you want to state your “intent” anyway. Since suddenly speaking Infernal won’t assuage any fears of demons, you’ll have to try a different approach: you sit up in bed and silently press your palms together, in the way you’ve seen Saradominists pray. You close your eyes, you bow your head, you look as stalwartly pious as you damn well can, and then you look to the woman at your side to judge how well you pulled that off.

Well enough for _her_ , apparently. She nods, gives that apologetic smile again, and stands. Now she's looking to her fellow priest for a response. Predictably, Anna’s review is somewhat less of a glowing one: she whips around to storm her way out of the room.

At least _that's_ over for now.

Left alone with the superior, she turns to face you again. She gestures to herself with a hand: "Abbess Benita." Then she turns the same hand at you.

 _Safest not to speak_ , you reckon: you mime a swipe across your larynx as an excuse. Abbess Benita nods, understanding.

She moves to a wooden box against the wall, and opens it to find and give you... your very own plain robes. Just what you've always wanted! Going back to the door, she faces you one more time: she signals outside the room to her right, then mimes a bowl and spoon. Your face expresses your thanks to her. She nods in acknowledgement and leaves, closing the door behind her.

Well, you have food. You have shelter. You have a change of clothing, bland as it may be. You have allies here, but you also have an enemy, These Saradominists have already served your immediate needs, and the last thing you want is to abuse their hospitality -- it could well result in you losing the allies you've got. For now, you're well-rested and about to be well-fed; you'll have to venture to the city eventually, and what better time for it than now?

Nevertheless... you switch back into the legatus state of mind. You've established yourself a good stronghold to start off with. Why squander it? Being a drain on their resources might lose you some allies, but showing some usefulness might gain you even more. All the better for strengthening the position you’ve already earnt yourself.

Your stomach's already made the decision on sticking around for a meal, but after that...  
  
---  
[Leave the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811874)  
[Stay at the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812027)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Temple path is being written by me, Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun, and in case it wasn't clear... here we are getting heavily into One Piercing Note territory. It's been one of my favourite quests ever since release, so I'm looking forward to delving into it from different angles here!


	4. Steal from Stall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to The City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56462356), or [Head to the City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156454) if coming from the Temple path.

You reach for a tantalizingly juicy fig, resisting the urge to grab the whole box with all your might. Your fingertips touch it…

A hand grabs you by the wrist, seemingly coming out of nowhere. 

“!!!!!” Shouts the stall keeper. “!!!!”

You manage to twist out of his ironlike grip, shoving him aside as you run towards an alleyway….

And right into a market guard.

* * *

The next several minutes are highly unpleasant, and filled with roughing and dragging and shouting in unknown tongues. The guard seems to question you, at one point; and when you are unable to answer, you earn yourself a strike in the face.

You’re hauled through the halls of the fortress-like building, which you now see is a palace of sorts, with ornate tilework and strange murals on the walls. Your newly-forming black eye reminds you that while this may be a new city, they seem to have taken a page from the Kharid-et tome of prisoner treatment.

You’re roughly dragged down a set of stairs to a mercifully cool basement area, lined with iron-barred jail cells. The guards find an empty one and unceremoniously throw you in, locking the door and leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your sore backside as you sit up on the rough sandstone floor. _Stultus!_ You should have been quicker with grabbing that damn fig. Or taken the necklace and gotten away as soon as you could. Then again, if this was how they treated fruit thieves, you shudder to think what they would do to someone who pilfered more valuable objects…

You hear chuckling off to your right, and you whip around to see the source of it. Another prisoner, dark-skinned and dressed in brightly-coloured garb, is sitting in the cell next to you and smirking.

You give him a dirty look, too tired and bruised to shake with the anger filling you. He merely laughs again.

“????? ????, ??? ???,” he says. “???? used to sever ??? ??? ???? ?? ?????? ??? ???? ?? ???? ?? ?? ?????”

You don’t understand what he’s saying, but you don’t like the sound of the word ‘sever.’ You need to get out of here, fast. 

You give the door an experimental rattle. It’s locked tight, unmoving despite your efforts. You scan the cell, hoping to find some sort of escape implement. However, you find it to be distressingly lacking in rocks to dig with, small animals that could be trained to fetch the keys from the guard’s belt, or convenient posters of General Nex to hide any escape tunnels behind.

“???, ? ???? ????? ?? ??? ????? cell,” your neighbor says. “???? ??? ???? ??? ??? ??????”

You give him a blank look. He seems to comprehend your misunderstanding, and points to the door, making a raising motion with his hands. 

He wants you to lift the door, you think. But what good would that do? It clearly swung inward, so there would be no point in trying to lift it. And it could be a trap — if he alerts the guards to your escape attempts, he may get rewarded for snitching.

Then again, something tells you that you can trust him. Maybe you should follow along with his advice…

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Lift Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57155881)  
[Ignore Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57155713)


	5. Stay at the Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alt title: quint's rollercoaster of a relationship with brassica prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to The Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56463418).

You gotta face facts: if you leave now, you have no idea where you'll be sleeping tonight. Staying here for now at least guarantees a bed.

Once you're all robed up, you set off in the general direction of breakfast (as indicated by the Abbess). It's not hard to find: there's a flock of those robes herding themselves into one large room, and it's easy to slip yourself in. You take a bowl and spoon, just like everybody else, and allow the stern chef to ladle you one hefty helping of cabbage soup.

Cabbage soup. They sure eat healthy here, huh. You eye the soggy leaves with distrust.

There's a free space at one table, near a younger priest -- roughly your age, in fact. She's trying to hide it, but she keeps glancing your way, and once she realises she's been caught in the act, she shuffles a little on her bench to make the free seat even more obvious.

You catch a smile on her face, too. A little oasis of fun in this dry room.

Where better to sit? You join her, and she's immediately directing some curious inquiry at you. Whatever it is, you have no way of answering it. You mime that swipe across your throat again.

"Oh!" she says, eyes suddenly wider. She speaks an apology, and you dip your head to the side in a way that you hope means 'it's fine'.

Your stomach chooses _this_ moment to rumble, very audibly and almost painfully. The young priest stifles a giggle (which, you can't help admitting, is pretty cute for someone in those plain robes). The cabbage soup, questionably appealing as it may be, still beckons to you. Your stomach is practically pleading: _you've got food, please just eat it already!_

Ugh. Why not. You dip your spoon into the sickly green mush and lift it--

The priest stops you, her hand having jumped to yours. The sudden touch is a shock… though not an unwelcome one. What _is_ unwelcome, though, is the fact that every other priest at your table is now staring at you.

You get the message. That spoon goes right back in the bowl where it _apparently_ belongs. The priest bashfully takes her hand away from yours, averting her eyes.

 _This is absurd,_ you think. _What else are we supposed to do with this food? Pray at it, in the hopes that it becomes a decent meal?_

The last few priests are taking their seats, and you see the abbess taking position at one end of the room. All those gathered close their eyes and put their hands together in prayer. They’re not _actually_ going to pray at it, are they…?

Well, if they’ve all closed their eyes, no one will see if you don’t join them! Right? No, not right, Abbess Benita's still looking. Fine, then. You go through the motions, but send off a secret prayer to Zaros instead. It’s a prayer for strength, and by the Lord, you’ll need it.

The end of this prayer appears to be the signal for everyone to finally start on their 'food'. Guess all you needed to do was ask Saradomin for permission to eat! You wonder what else they need to pray for _permission_ to do. Are they all praying tiny prayers to ask permission for each breath? Saradominism must be _exhausting._

Well, at least you can tuck in now. Once more, you bring a quivering piece of sodden leaf back up to your mouth, and somehow manage to slip the thing down your gullet...

… and it turns out to be better than you’d expected. It’s surprisingly flavourful, especially the broth. Looks aren’t everything, you suppose. You gulp down a few mouthfuls more, then enthusiastically nod your compliments to the chef (who’s sitting one table away, sluggishly slurping at her own soup). The chef squints at you in return.

The priest next to you seems to have noticed your happy surprise, and laughs a little at the sight of it.

“?’? Catharina!” she introduces herself, then clears her throat and corrects it a little more formally: “ _Sister_ Catherina.” There’s a little more to her introduction, but naturally you can’t make out a word of it.

“Sister” must be one of the ranks here, then. Surely not a high one, given how youthful and energetic Catherina is. She seems incapable of sitting still: one of her hands is idly fumbling with her spoon; the other, near you, is frenetically tapping on the table. Not the kind of person you’d expect to see devoting her life to such a dull religion.

You can’t talk to her, but perhaps you can interact in some other way. You start to mirror the tapping motion of her fingers -- and she immediately stops, suddenly self-conscious. Which is the opposite of what you’d intended to signal!

You continue your end of the tapping, a little more gently this time, and she slowly begins again. She walks her fingers across the table, then speeds them up to a run. You match her, and soon the two of you are chasing each other’s fingers around the table--

Aaaand you’ve knocked over your bowl. Delicious cabbage soup spills out across the table and onto the floor. Oops.

Looks like Catherina _does_ know how to sit still: she bolts up in her seat as the bowl clatters on the floor. “??’? Sister Elena!” she whispers loudly to you; at the same time the chef wearily lifts herself from her bench. She grabs a cloth from the serving table, then heads directly at you. Uh oh.

Sister Elena is chastising you the second she arrives at your table: “?????’? ???? ?? ???? soup ?? ????, ??? ????” Then she tosses the cloth down in front of you. “?? ???????!”

Whatever that meant, it looks like you’ll be cleaning this up yourself. You look despondently at the pitiful amount of soup left in your bowl, then you eye up the huge pot that Elena had been serving from. But there hadn’t been much soup left when you’d entered, so _now_ … well, it looks like that’s all the breakfast you’re getting.

“No seconds,” says Elena. An entire phrase you can understand. Shame it's such a disappointing one.

Catherina and the other priests are finishing with their soup by the time you’ve finally cleaned to Elena’s satisfaction. Most of them seem to go their separate ways, and presumably that option’s available to you as well.

You’d quite like to head off with Sister Catherina, naturally. You have no idea what it is specifically that she does here, but you could always find out. And you certainly have no objection to spending time with a cute woman your age... even if she is a Saradominist.

Thinking tactically, though, maybe your time is better spent with Sister Elena. Catherina’s already a friend, and meanwhile you’ve gone and made a _bad_ first impression with the chef. Always a bad move, that -- in any situation, getting the chef onside is a quick and easy way to secure yourself some bonus food. If you help her out, maybe she’ll let you have a taste of the _premium_ cabbage. The kitchen’s a good place to be in general, too -- where better to snatch a few spare morsels to tide you over from your failed breakfast?  
  
---  
[Go with Catherina](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57510562)  
[Stay with Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57510811)


	6. Leave the Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to The Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56463418).

Yeah, you really don't want to hang around these people any longer than you have to.

Breakfast thankfully seems to be a quiet affair, with no conversation above a whisper. You're made to take part in the opening prayer, and you follow their motions reluctantly, but your feigned muteness saves you from having to say any of the words yourself. You pray a silent prayer of your own instead, wishing for safety and success on the day ahead... and a swift end to all the confusion of your current situation.

You decline to sit in on their morning prayers. The Abbess seems a little disappointed, but accepts your decision... and you swear you catch Anna glancing at her after that, a hint of vindication in her smile.

Looks like all the priests are occupied. You sneak a skin of water from the kitchen, and then nothing's stopping you from leaving the temple for good.

As you make your way back out into the elements, you start to see a little of the logic in Saradominist design principles: your white robes ward heat away, and the coverage ensures your burnt skin is shielded from any further damage. You only wish they weren't so _heavy_.

It's a long walk, but you try to put that out of your mind. You keep your eyes fixed on the city ahead of you. You focus on how it becomes nearer with every step you take. Constant progress...

Ethereal music begins to echo from behind you: women's voices rising in unison. At your distance, it's barely audible -- like fading wisps of smoke magic after a battle's been fought. Your eyes almost flutter closed as you trudge on ever ahead; you let the temple's voices float all around you. But you don't let them in. You've turned your back for good: you won't let some pretty sounds turn you back to the care of heretical priests.

You're relieved, and yet still disappointed, when the music finally becomes too faint to hear.

You're not left in silence for long, though. You're still not even halfway to the city, and yet already joyful sounds are starting to join you: first the driving beat of a drum, then chiming notes from a string instrument (almost like a cithara, but sharper and livelier), and finally a man's voice begins to come through, strong and soaring. His lyrics are completely incomprehensible, and yet you'd find them compelling in any language.

Every so often, though, the music is punctuated by some unnatural screech -- and as unfamiliar as this music may be, you really don’t think those interruptions are part of it. Doesn’t sound like any demon you know. Perhaps you’d rather _not_ know.

You hurry on. The sooner you reach your goal, the better.

The peaks of patterned tents begin to peek above the dunes -- that must be it! Curiosity piqued, you finally allow yourself to shift your eyes from the city; they’re drawn instead to the bright patterns of the camp. There’s no doubt: the music is definitely coming from here, and it’s clearer than ever. You’ve never heard anything quite like this, and you want more... and you figure the life of a travelling musician wouldn't be a bad bet for someone in a situation like yours. You barely know how music works, but you’re sure you can figure _something_ out.

At the same time, though, you think you’ve found the source of the _other_ sounds. Not much further beyond the small camp, strange writhing shapes keep forming from the sand. They loom far above the tents, their heads twisting in silhouette against the sky… and then, in seconds, they dissolve back onto the ground. 

Maybe it’s a bad idea to head over there after all. For all you know, the music could be a trap to lure passing travellers. You look in uncertainty back to the urban behemoth on the horizon: giant and unwieldy as the city may be, at least you don’t see any screaming sand creatures there...

… you think.  
  
---  
[Follow Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156094/)  
[Head to the City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156454)


	7. Pickpocket Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to The City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56462356), or [Head to the City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156454) if coming from the Temple path.

You saunter over to the man, who seems to be a knight of some sort, and snatch the necklace from his pack before you have time to think twice, bolting off into the crowd. You hear a shout behind you, but you’re far ahead of him.

Your heart races as you sprint through crowded streets and narrow throughways, dodging shoppers and camels and men passing through holding unwieldy panes of glass. Why are there so many of them in this city? Someone could get into a nasty accident.

You finally come to rest in a tiny alleyway, mercifully dark and hidden from prying eyes. At one point you think you hear running feet, but they soon pass you by. You huddle behind a stack of crates, panting, as your racing heart slowly stabilizes.

“Phew,” you sigh. “That was a close one.”

A sudden rattle nearly makes you jump out of your skin, as a rotting barrel across from you starts shaking. You stiffen, and grab the nearest object to you, holding it up menacingly.

“You stay where you are!” You shout, waving your arm. “I’ve got a…” you look at your improvised weapon. “Dried camel pat? Euuuurgh!”

You throw the dung away, cursing. The barrel rattles again, and from it emerges a mangy cat. It hops down on the ground, giving you the evil eye, and begins to wash itself.

You cross yourself, muttering ancient curses under your breath. “I should have just taken the damn fruit…”

At least you have collateral now. You examine the necklace, noting the Saradomin star on it with a smirk.

With a grunt, you lift yourself up off the ground and exit the alleyway. The streets are a little quieter now, and you start scanning the buildings for a place to stay.

Let’s see… which establishment would most likely admit a ragged-looking, non-fluent stranger with possibly stolen merchandise? The signs, fortunately, are in lettering that you can read, though the words make no sense to you.

 _The Golden Camel?_ No, too fancy. They have palm trees in front. You wouldn’t be able to even walk through the lobby.

 _The Reed Palace_? Definitely a little shoddier, but they innkeep in the window looks like he’s actually bathed recently. Pass.

What’s this? A dilapidated shack? No, it actually looks inhabited. And it looks to be an inn – in addition to the title, the sign above it bears rough pictograms of a bed and a plate. And also some graffiti. You don’t understand it, but it’s probably something rude.

There are even chickens wandering in and out of the door. Oh, Zaros, how your standards have lowered.

With a heavy sigh you head inside, noting the dingy exterior and the dirty hay coating the floor. There are a few grime-covered tables in front of the fireplace, which currently houses a few dying embers and a cauldron full of something bubbling. The innkeeper, seated behind a filthy-looking desk near the entrance, gives you a toothless grin, and you repress a shudder. 

“??????? to _Cul di Ugthanki_ ,” he says, gesturing. 

You wordlessly place the necklace on the desk. The innkeeper's eyes widen, and he smiles again. He lifts the necklace to his mouth and gives it a bite before nodding, sliding it off the surface. He then rummages around and hands you a key and a handful of greasy coins, which you take after a moment’s hesitation. 

“???? ?? ????????,” he says, pointing upwards. “No ??????? in ??? ???????”

You nod, fervently. He then hands you a cracked bowl and points to the cauldron. 

You head over to the fire and help yourself to a ladle full of… something. You try not to think about it too much as you work your way through the bowl, even as you chew your way through the various concerning lumps and textures floating in the murk. 

When you blessedly come to the end of your meal, you shuffle upstairs to your room. Not even caring that the bedding looks more akin to vegetable sacks than blankets, you collapse onto the bed and immediately fall asleep. 

* * *

Morning arrives, and the screaming song of ibises outside your window rouses you from your slumber. Interesting — they tended to congregate around your fort as well. Maybe the light-thingie didn’t deposit you that far after all. 

You get up, trying not to think about the itching bites on your body that no doubt came from the vermin infesting the bed, and head downstairs. 

As you do, you nearly jump out of your skin for the second time in 24 hours. The same knight from earlier, his helmet now removed, is arguing with the innkeeper. He's quite upset; though you don’t understand his words, he seems to be on the verge of weeping. The necklace you took from him earlier is resting on the counter, next to a small handful of coins — enough, probably, to cover a night’s stay, but not nearly enough to cover the cost of the necklace.

You freeze, and the weight of the change in your pocket suddenly feels much heavier. The knight is clearly distressed about the necklace, and you feel a stab of guilt in your chest.

Then again, a stab of guilt is much better than a stab from a sword, which, no doubt, you’ll feel if you come clean.

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Sneak Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156046)  
[Fess Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156016)


	8. Head to the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811874).

While you still don’t know what the city might hold for you, you’re fairly certain that most of the possibilities there are preferable to being eaten by a sand monster.

Onwards, then. You fix your gaze on the city once more, sure to give the creatures as wide a berth as you can manage.

The familiar smell of urbanism hits you like a hammer as you approach. Smoke, cooking meats, the acrid tang of the tannery, camel dung… long ago you would have wrinkled your nose as such a odiferous mix, but the scent of civilization after all that time in the damned pit is sweeter than all the rosewater in Senntisten.

You’re beginning to get a better view of the buildings. Towering above the high buildings, but seemingly built out of the same sandstone, is a fortresslike edifice. Tall, thin towers topped by round domes rise from it, and you can see the greenery of several date palms swaying in the breeze behind its walls.

Your mouth waters — at least, it waters as much as it can, considering how far you’ve walked through the desert since cabbage soup. Figuring out where exactly you’ve landed can wait. You need to hydrate.

The closer you get to the main gate, the more you realize how truly out of your element you are. The people are still people, thank goodness, but the clothes they wear are strange — flowing white robes, faded and strange streetwear, capes of every colour…. Wherever that _thing_ had dumped you, it’s clearly far from Kharid-et.

The question is: Where? You don’t know of any other deserts, besides where Kharid-et was situated, and the Kharidian wastes to the south of you. Was this one of the Menaphite settlements you’d heard some of the legionnaires talk about? But those had been, as far as you knew, some dusty tents and buildings hidden in the dunes. Not an entire city...

You pass through the main gate, the urban smell becoming almost overwhelming. Dense chatter floats up around you as you enter, and you half-listen to it. Yet despite being clearly out of Saradominist territory, you’re just as clueless here as you were at the temple.

You can pick up a few words here and there, but they quickly sink back into the soup of linguistic confusion. Alien vocabulary assaults your ears as you stumble aimlessly through the city. Lumbridge? Karamja? What was an Arma crossbow? Why had someone wearing a paper crown knocked into you and called you a noob? What _was_ this place?

You back up under the veranda of a nearby building, catching your breath and taking in the overwhelming scene around you. It’s clear that this is a trading hub of some sort. The locals all wear the same, loose desert clothing, while no two outsiders look the same, between the strange hats and brightly-hued armour.

Wait. A dark, metallic shine catches your eye. You need to look again, not believing your eyes. But, sure enough, it’s truly there; a tribunus, wearing the armour of Virtus. They’re standing by a strange papered contraption, talking to a small goggled man who you _think_ is a gnome.

Normally, you wouldn’t dream of approaching a superior officer — especially considering the state of your attire. However, desperate times call for desperate measures.

If you can get their attention, you might be able to convince them to send you back to an outpost… and, if you play your cards right, then you might just end up someplace where your dessert-related transgressions in Kharid-et are unknown.

You approach the officer, straightening your stance. You stand in front of them and salute, your chest puffed out proudly.

“Ave, Tribunus,” you say. Their masked face turns, now pointed unreadably in your direction. “Munifex Quintus Stoke, of the Kharid —, er Kharyll outpost. I seem to have been teleported here by the enemy. Awaiting orders, sir.”

The officer tilts their head. “????” they say, their reply incomprehensible. “??? ?? ??? ????? server ?? ?????????”

“Er…” You mutter a curse under your breath. Either this officer is foreign, or is some imposter wearing some pilfered equipment. Either way, they’re of no use to you.

You shuffle back into the crowd, your stomach empty, your mouth tasting of glue, and with the feeling of despair beginning to settle on your shoulders. You’ll need to find shelter by nightfall, or at least something to eat and drink. Usually money would supersede these conversations, but you have nothing to your name. Begging is out of the question — beggars in Senntisten never lasted for more than a day, thanks to the noble efforts of the praetorians. Who knows what horrors lay in wait for mendicants in this strange place? 

As you pass by a fruit stall, you see boxes of figs, dates, nuts and pomegranates shining ripely in the midday light. You lick your lips. The merchant in charge of the wares seems to be enthralled in a haggling session with a local woman, their conversation getting progressively louder in the sea of market chatter. Nobody seems to be watching — if you’re quick enough, you might be able to snag something before the stall owner notices…

At the same time, a glint of gold catches your eye. You spot a man, wearing a gleaming white platebody, making his way from one stall to the next. A jewel-embedded necklace is sticking tantalizingly out of the satchel at his hip. You’re pretty sure you can snatch it away without him knowing. It’ll be a bigger risk, but it comes with a greater reward than a measly piece of fruit. 

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Steal from Stall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811916)  
[Pickpocket Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812132)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mostly by Chaos_Elemental, with a few edits from Z_o_t_D. We're back into C_E territory from these choices on out.)


	9. Continue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Sneak Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156046), [Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58193815) or [Part Ways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834589).

You head north, away from the hustle and bustle of the city in an attempt to clear your head. You pass through the gates, the cliffs looming above you, as the urban cacophony fades behind you. As you do, you reach a fork in the road. 

To your left is a gap in the cliffs, and you see that the desert sand slowly becomes engulfed by green grass. A waft of cool air passes over you, smelling of water and wet soil. It’s soothing to your dried skin, and you breathe in deeply. 

To the right is more desert, accented by a wandering camel, chewing on its cud placidly. Past it is a small oasis and what looks to be a shaded stand, much like a street stall. 

Which way do you go?  
  
---  
[Go Left](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834472)  
[Go Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501208)


	10. Follow Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811874).

For better or for worse, your curiosity gets the better of you. Strange music and sand creatures it is.

The sand burns brilliantly in the sun, and it's hard to shut out its glare. You look down instead, focusing on the path of your sandal-clad feet and the relative darkness of your shadow instead of… whatever you might see in the distance. The music alone should be enough to guide you.

You’re closer now, with the separate sounds of the creatures and the musicians clearly diverging. As much as you focus on the ground, the screams are impossible to ignore: this close, the sound is all-consuming, piercing through the musicians' song, seizing your body in an uncomfortable jolt.

_Don't look up, Quint. **Don't.**_

You look up. A monstrous head coalesces from the sand a few hundred metres away. Pieces of its body form themselves together: it's sectioned like a scorpion, somehow armoured, folding and unfolding itself in lunges and stretching sweeps. It screams, and the sand shakes. Its pincers carve one precise arc in the sky. Its eyes beam a sickening gold — not in your direction, you _hope_ — and one tiny human figure stands before it...

You can’t watch any longer. You bring your hand to your waterskin and swig down some water to wash back the bile in your throat. Time to fix your eyes right back on the ground where they belong.

The next time you look up, you pointedly avoid _that_ direction; instead, you take a look at the tents you saw earlier. They shouldn't be more than a minute's walk away now. (Strange place to set up — surely the musicians must be aware of the monsters not a mile away from their camp! You can't imagine they'd appreciate the way they 'sing along'.)

You're beginning to catch sight of the performers now. There are five of them. Two stand at the back, playing instruments — there's the drum you heard earlier, and another seems to be drawing a bow across a stringed instrument to create an interesting gliding sound. Two beautiful dancers, a man and a woman, are mirroring each other's rhythmic movements. Their costumes are bright enough to compete with the glare of the sand, while also showing skin enough to make a pontifex blush — if you dressed like that in this sun, you'd look like a ripe apple by now.

And the singer, playing the cithara-like object (it's held horizontally and has a long extension from one end — you think you've seen instruments like it, but only rarely): his back is turned to you, but even from this angle you can appreciate his stage presence. As you come nearer, he reaches a point where the music shifts; he lets go of his instrument to clap his hands together, and energetically encourages his audience to clap along with him. It's impossible to resist it… and you don't.

The man looks to the rest of his troupe, laughing with joy and spurring them along. This is a man who's found what he loves, who's found _people_ he loves, and is clearly loving every second of his life. You might envy him were you not so... _taken_ with him.

As you round the back of the performers and come to where the spectators are sitting, you try your very best not to stare at the singer _too_ hard.

The audience is a motley assortment of fighters in unusual armour; you sit with them on one of several mats on the sand. You feel a little out of place, but it looks like none of them really care: everyone's mesmerised by the performers —

— and the singer looks you in the eye! It only lasts an unreadable instant before he turns attention back to his show — but it gets you incessantly wondering. He looked at _you?_ You, with your burnt red face and your plain sandswept robes? Maybe he just wasn't expecting to see a man wearing them.

That fleeting eye contact is still on your mind when the song ends — and, with it, the show. The singer and his performers take dramatic bows to the sound of rapturous cheers. Once that's run its course, they start packing up; one musician gathers up a sizable amount of gold from in and around her instrument case. The audience is starting to go their separate ways.

The singer, however, starts heading straight for you. Wow. Well...

You stand up to meet him, and in the process realise that he's _easily_ an entire foot taller than you — you have to raise your head a little to look at him. (Staring ahead certainly seems to give you one hefty eyeful of bare chest. Not something _you_ have a problem with, but potentially something _he_ would.)

The man greets you, in an enviably easygoing manner that you'd be completely incapable of matching. He waves a hand up and down at your body, which you initially think refers to your height but probably means he's questioning the temple robes. 

"?????? ?? ??? ? ??? ??????? ????? ?????." Wonderful. Just as unintelligible as everything else you've heard.

You say a few words of complete gibberish — a way to demonstrate the language barrier without resorting to Infernal. The man gets the message, and calls: "Andreas!" The moustachioed drummer responds to his beckoning, and comes over to face you. Guess he's their resident translator, then. You approximate the same gibberish you said before, and unsurprisingly, the drummer's response to it is a big shrug.

The singer looks a little surprised, but nods. He holds out his arm in front of him and you clasp it — he looks a little confused, but rolls with it, taking your forearm into his strong grasp.

"Valerio," he says.

"Quint," you respond.

"Quint, huh?" Every damn corner of his face is smiling at you, right to a little twitch of his ears, and Lord, if you weren't charmed already...

Valerio jerks a thumb behind him in the direction of the temple. With his other hand, he takes a little pinch of the fabric of your robe. "Hm?"

You get the feeling that your story isn't exactly one that can be told through gestures — not without making a complete fool of yourself, at the very least. Instead, you give an awkwardly lopsided grin, and hope it conveys _it's a long story_ well enough.

Apparently, it does. Valerio purses his lips, gives a brisk nod, then... looks like he doesn't know quite how to continue with you.

You _really_ don't want it ending here — but there's one more language you can try.

Andreas' drum sits on the floor near where he was standing. You stride over, seek a nod of confirmation from Andreas to ensure he won't mind, and then pick it up. You slot it into the corner of your elbow, just like you saw him doing. Of course, _your_ elbow is swamped in heavy fabric, but it fits well enough.

Valerio ambles easily over to you, intrigued now, his hands returning to long-familiar holds on his instrument. He's going to play along, isn't he. Won't be that bad, will it? A drum is about the most basic an instrument can get, so _surely_ you'll more or less know what you're doing.

(You really don't know what you're doing.)

You remember the parades. The flash of the flaming torches, timed to the consistent rhythm of a drum. The rhythm never changed, and year upon year of Senntisten's parades have pounded it into your memory. You try your best to replicate it now: your palm hits the skin of the drum...

Valerio lights up in an instant, letting loose a happy cry. His fingers dance on the strings, weaving a few chords into sync with your drumbeat. The woman on the other stringed instrument begins to work in a melody. The two dancers meet each other's eyes, and start stepping towards and away from each other in time: they're laying the foundation of a dance. You see a few of the former audience start to turn back in curiosity.

You _still_ don't know what you're doing, but you'd ruin everything if you stopped now.

Andreas, while presently without his instrument, doesn't seem at all put off by it. He mimes the drumbeat along with you, giving you some tips in the process: to shift the impact to the wrist, or to a different section of the drum, to vary and liven up your sound. Before you know it, the pattern you remember is evolving into something new — something you've created in the mix of all these people here.

There’s an unspoken communication you pick up on: subtle signals in bodies and music that change the way it’s played. You count the repetitions in the pattern you play, and notice at the end of a group of sixteen, Valerio raises his instrument a little higher into the air... and then dips his hips down to begin a new phase. Not easy to keep your drumming steady through all this, but you're trying your best. You're new to the group, and yet somehow you're already its backbone.

The newly reformed audience couldn't care less who you are or where you came from. You're giving them a beat, and they're moving in response.

A while into your improvisation — you couldn't say exactly how long it's been, you've lost yourself so much in the song — you catch a signal shooting from eye to eye throughout the troupe. The dancers both acknowledge it, and put up mirroring hands with the four fingers raised. Then three, two, one...

You give one final-sounding thump at the end of your new song, and watch in dazed amazement as the crowd cheers and applauds. You're stunned! You could never have imagined a reaction like this. You can't even move from where you're standing, you're so thrilled.

It takes a little while for the applause to die down and for the audience to drift away from the surprise encore, but eventually the troupe is left alone again. Valerio gives you a hearty clap on the back, and the happy glow that fills you suddenly skyrockets. Caught up in the post-performance bliss with the rest of them, you think... you really wouldn't mind doing a whole lot more of this.

Valerio’s hand is on your back again ( _wow_ you hope he doesn’t stop doing that), and it seems like he’s leading you to the great mass of buildings ahead. He calls his friends along, too.

Group trip to the city, huh? Probably better than trying to go it alone.

You end up passing by the sand monsters, which you're naturally feeling some trepidation about, but Valerio's constant presence (and the others' — safety in numbers) is helping you to manage that.

Valerio names the creatures for you: "Strykewyrms."

There's a good few adventurers here as well, some of which had previously been at the show, and all of which are now taking on the strykewyrms one-on-one. For all your trepidation, it seems they're not as much of a threat as you imagined. You watch as one woman (dressed in armour that shines blindingly in the sun, wielding something that looks like a farmer’s tool but drips with a noxious liquid) plants a well-placed stomp on the ground and draws one of the strykewyrms up from its dune. It roars at the disturbance, but there’s nothing it can do against a warrior of this calibre. A few well-placed swipes slice through a form that shouldn’t even have form in the first place. The great beast loses its integrity, and dissolves into powder on the ground.

Andreas elbows you as you walk. He swipes into the thin air with an invisible weapon, giving you a raised eyebrow and a smile.

You shake your head rapidly: _no_. No, _absolutely_ not. You're glad _somebody's_ keeping them in check, but all the same, you're very happy that you have nothing to do with it.

Valerio chuckles, too warmly to be doing so in mockery. You really can't imagine why.

* * *

There’s so much of the city, but the troupe has no trouble with it, filtering through crowds that look impenetrable to you. There’s a few stops you make: several different stalls for different kinds of food, another for a sleeping bag and basic underclothes, a third where a dancer picks up souvenirs — tiny models of the one grand building at the city’s centre, which you've only seen through the narrow gaps between crammed houses and shops.

You’re eventually brought into one of those shops, with cloth and clothing hanging from the walls, and are met by a cheerful shopkeeper. She tries to greet you personally, but a quick explanation from Bea (one of the dancers) puts an end to that attempt; instead, she settles for the classic smile and nod. You’re shepherded through shelves full of possible outfits, and find yourself quickly overwhelmed: there are so many things to consider! Should you get something to shield your skin from frying in an instant? And yet you want something light and airy, all the better for this climate (especially after half a day in heavy robes). You want colours, no doubt, but so many of these are too bright. You want rich colours, warm colours, vibrant and strong but not blindingly so...

And one sense of disbelief is at the forefront of everything: the money they’ve earned is being spent on _you._ You can't be _that_ valuable to them, can you? Surely any fool can hit a drum.

Do they pity you? Is that the root of this? You turn up on their metaphorical doorstep, sunburnt, unwashed and wearing borrowed robes, and they decide to do a good deed. Just like the priests did... and yet you always felt a step removed from them. You were playing the age-old game: lying to them, abusing their charity. These people… you’re not using them. Your destitution is nothing but truth, and their honest responses are making you all the more aware of it. 

You sure have spent a while being indecisive over clothes, huh. You grab a tunic and short leggings 

that you’ve been agonising over, and decide to get it over with.

Into the changing rooms you go. There’s a wall-mounted mirror that shows you in all your squalor, sandblasted and sweaty. Stripping off the robes and changing into the costume feels like a transformation — you could still do with a wash, but in this rich, deep purple trimmed with gold, you look so much more _you_.

You emerge from the changing room to a joyful greeting from your troupe. You bask in that joy for a second or two, looking back down at your body, reminding yourself again and again how _good_ you really can look. What’s spoiling the image is the sunburn: the sleeves end at the elbows, the shorts gather at the knees and the neckline scoops out around your collarbones. Almost all of the skin after those points is an awful shade of red right now... a shade which certainly does not suit your outfit.

Dara, one of the dancers, has a solution to that. He takes a small vial from his satchel, and hands it over; there appears to be some sort of paste inside, presumably for the skin. That's yet another gift you've taken from these people… but at least you'll look a little less like dried apple skin from now on.

* * *

You spend a busy day in the city, following the troupe wherever they take you. This place feels a lot more manageable with them around; it may not have the orderliness of Senntisten, but you're learning to tame its chaos all the same.

The gifts never stop, either. You're bought your own satchel, in which you stash away everything you've been given so far. You decline to discard the robes (who knows when you might need to go undercover as a priest), so they’re dropped off for washing with a bundle of other clothing. Another addition to your satchel is your very own instrument, most likely for the sake of no longer having to "borrow" Andreas' drum — you recognise it as something very close to a tympanum, but Emmeline the musician names it as a "tambourine". It's lighter than his drum, handheld, and rattles as it goes — you can't imagine you'll have much trouble with it.

You have lunch together, eating in the shade provided by a cluster of palm trees. You're having meat wrapped in some kind of flatbread as sold by one of the street vendors, and it turns out to be quite the filling meal — once you're done, you could quite happily never move again. The performers are joking and laughing among themselves, but there always seems to be an effort made to include you in it: Someone will do their best to re-enact whatever anecdote's being told through wild, outlandish gestures — often borderline obscene ones, too. It sure does the trick, and you find yourself laughing right along with them.

_Finally,_ you get an opportunity to wash yourself for the first time in far too long: you're decidedly thankful for this city having a decent bath house. The steam soothes your dried-out throat and softens your burnt skin, and you make _damn_ sure that there's not a single gritty grain of sand left on you. You'll be back into that sand soon, of course, but that doesn't mean you can't feel clean for the time being.

(Sharing a bath house with Valerio is nerve-wracking. You spend most of the visit trying to dodge him, sparing yourself from any embarrassment and leaving yourself to clean your burnt little body far away from his… physique.)

The Quintus who returns to the tents in the evening feels like an entirely different one to who you were just this morning. You're refreshed, well-fed, and most importantly, well-dressed: more than ready to enthusiastically blunder through another performance with your new…

Friends?

Friends.

Yeah. A _lot_ has changed in the past few days.

There's one last performance for the night. You end up next to Andreas for most of it, keeping an eye on his steady rhythm to time your little tambourine flourishes. At one point, Bea pulls you into the dance, and you're _clueless_ there... and yet both the audience and the troupe seem to enjoy that fact. You'd think it was pity again, but it's consistently too honest, too jovial for that. They're having fun, and they're having fun _with_ you.

There's one final meal, a relatively quiet one clustered around the campfire. Everyone seems to have depleted their energy for the day, you more than anyone else. You're happy for it, though — this has been the best day you've had in a long, long time.

* * *

The campfire's burning in embers now. You're curled up in your sleeping bag, clutching close the remnants of that heat.

You never did like the dark. You've kept the flap of your tent just slightly open; the stars and the embers make sure you've always got at least a sliver of light. Your eyes are already half-closed, and the charred logs' calming orange glow is slowly nudging them the rest of the way.

The sound of gentle footsteps softly enters your awareness. You half suspect that you've imagined them, but the appearance of a dark silhouette confirms it. Doesn't seem to be an intruder, fortunately; in fact, you're pretty sure that's Valerio, emerging from his tent and slowly stepping across your little campground.

Where's he off to at this time of night? Not to the fire, not to any of the tents; he seems to be leaving the campground altogether. Could he be sneaking off to someplace in the city? You can certainly imagine a place like that having entertainment to offer at night — entertainment that he may well want to keep secret from the members of his troupe.

Well, you _could_ leave him to it… and if he’s sneaking out like this, then you probably _should_. On the other hand… you are a nosy bastard. A nosy bastard who’s now curious, and you’re not in the mood to stew in curiosity for the rest of the night. Who knows? Maybe Valerio’s late-night diversion is something you can get in on. Tired as you may be, you’re not opposed to the right kind of entertainment keeping you awake.  
  
---  
[Follow Valerio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834394)  
[Get some Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834352)


	11. Sneak Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pickpocket Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812132).

You back away, hoping the stairs aren’t creaking too much under your steps. You duck back to your room, sneaking out through a window, slipping down from the roof, and losing yourself in the crowd of the city.   
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156112)


	12. Fess Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pickpocket the Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812132).

The small part of your brain that houses any sort of common sense is screaming at you. You ignore it, and instead head down the stairs. The innkeeper stops arguing, and instead points to you. 

The knight’s eyes widen as you reach into your pocket, and wordlessly place the handful of change from the evening before on the counter. 

The knight regards you for a moment, before turning to the innkeeper, pushing both piles of coins to him. 

“Enough?” He says. 

The innkeeper snorts, but nonetheless scoops the change towards him. He flings the necklace at the knight, and then points to the door, casting a glance at you that indicates that you’re to join him. 

You don’t need telling twice. You head outside, blinking in the bright sun as the morning market bustle fills the air with busy cacophony.

When you feel the hand land on your shoulder you nearly jump, and you back away. The knight holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and you notice that he’s securely chained the necklace to his belt. 

“???,” he says. “????? ??? ??? ????? ???? ?? ???? ???????, ??? ????”

You stare at him blankly. The knight raises an eyebrow. 

“??? ??? ?????????? me?” He says. You shake your head.

“??? ??? mute?”

“Mute?!” You say, not able to keep your mouth shut anymore. “Why would I be mute? I can speak, thank you very much!”

Damn it! You should have kept quiet. Oh, well. It’s not like he understood you, judging by the confused look on his face. 

He thinks for a moment. “??? in trouble?” He says, very carefully. 

Should you even tell him? Why would you accept the help of a Saradominist? You turned your back on the abbey for a reason…

“? ??? assist,” he says. “? ?? no expert in linguistics, ??? ? ??? ???? ???????”

Wait. If he’s a knight, he might be able to get you to someone who speaks Infernal. High-ranking commanders of any side were expected to know it. If you can find someone who’s able to translate, you can probably pick up the language enough and light out on your own. 

Then again, this is a Saradominist. You can probably trust him as far as you can throw him — and, with all that armour, he looks rather heavy. 

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Trust Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194142)  
[Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58193815)


	13. Lift Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Steal from the Stall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811916).

After (triple) checking for guards, you grab the door and give it a mighty heave. To your surprise, it begins to lift — and you realize that the hinges were never properly bolted.

You slide the door from its bolts and swing it to the side, slipping out of the cell and hastily replacing it as you giddily grin. Ha! The guards will never know how you got out — it’ll be as though you were a ghost.

You look to the other prisoner, who pantomimes applauding you. He then points to the wall further down, where you can see a set of keys hanging from a nail. 

You may be a failed fruit thief, but you’re not a man to forget a debt. Quietly as you can, you grab the keys, and unlock your companion’s jail cell. 

The man grins, and slips out. He dashes down the hallway towards the singular window, high above your reach, and shimmies up the wall like a snake. He then wriggles through the tiny opening, and you watch his boots disappear. 

A moment later, a hand pokes throw the window. 

“???? on,” he says. “??? ????? ????? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??? ??????”

You don’t need telling twice. Or in Infernal. You grab his hand, and he hauls you up with surprising strength to the street above. You try to catch your breath, but you have no chance — a moment later and he’s dragging you through the crowds, weaving past the throngs like an expert. 

He drags you to an alleyway, this one stacked high with crates. He lets go of your hand, and leaps to the rooftop above with the grace of a desert goat. 

Your jaw drops, as the man stands above you, seemingly waiting.  _ Zaros, _ you think as you approach the crate pile,  _ if you are in this cursed place, grant me agility. _

The following sequence of stumbles, broken crates and curses is an unfortunate incident you wish not to think about too hard, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you manage to scrabble to the top, aided by the man at the top. The lingering bruises will surely mock you in the future, but for now, you’re glad to have reached this place in one piece.

The man claps you on the back, laughing. You’re about to rebuke him, when you realize that his laughter isn’t mocking, but friendly. You sag with relief, only mildly annoyed now.

The man stops laughing, though he still grins. He jabs a thumb towards his chest. “Ozan.”

You nod. “Quint,” you say, pointing to yourself.

He extends an arm in greeting.  _ Ah, perhaps the people here are civilized, _ you think, grabbing his forearm in a firm grip. He, however, fails to do the same, and instead gives you a strange look. 

You let go, somewhat embarrassed.  _ Maybe not… _

He shrugs it off good-naturedly. “??, he says. “????? part of Gielinor ??? ???? ?? ??? ???? Kharidian?”

You shake your head. “Kharidian, no,” you manage to say.  _ No _ seems to have retained its meaning in whatever linguistic nightmare you’ve been dropped into. 

“???? ?? ??? ?????, ?????” He says, phrasing it like a question. “??????? ??? ?????? Gnome? Draconic? Infernal?”

You nod your head eagerly. “Infernal! Yes!”

He gives you another odd look. “Hmmm,” he mumbles. “??? me ???”

He clears his throat. “You,” he says. His accent is atrocious, but it’s Infernal, alright — music to your ears.

“You,” he says again. “I am understand?”

You wince. His declension is pretty awful as well, but you’ll take what you can get. You nod. 

“Beneficial!” He says, grinning. “I am of rust. I have. The…. love? Send away [Vb]? Friend. Yes. I have friend. Knowing is. Lots. With Infernal [abl].”

You manage to piece together what he means. Ozan has a friend who knows more of your language. And hopefully has much better grammar. You’re pretty sure that he’s trustworthy, and having someone who knows your tongue may be your saving grace in this savage city.

Then again, this savage city may have more to offer. Maybe you can explore a bit more.

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Go with Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834775)  
[Part Ways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834589)


	14. Ignore Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Steal from the Stall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56811916).

You snort, and turn away. No way would you trust any of these barbarians! It’s clearly some sort of trick to try and get you caught again.

The man tries talking to you again, but you continue to ignore him. After a while, the guards come and take him away, leaving you alone.

Days pass. Then weeks. You count the time by scratching marks onto the walls, until there’s no room left. All the while, you hear the tantalizing bustle of the crowd outside, going about their lives. You pick up the language enough to roughly ascertain what certain things are. Kebabs. Dragon armour. Adventurers. Ardougne and Falador — names of faraway places that you’ll never see.

Oh, well. Out from one prison and into another. At least you had some fun while you could.

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	15. Stake (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Take Crossbow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501403).

The referee leads you out to the arena, and you take your positions. As soon as you hear the whistle blow, you nock a bolt and fire it towards the man, aiming right for the neckline of his helm. 

The bolt simply bounces off the scarlet armour with a  _ tink _ , ricocheting out of your reach. You look at the crossbow. It  _ looks _ functional. By all means that should have ripped through anything less than Torva’s armour. 

You nock another bolt and fire.  _ Tink. _ And again.  _ Tink. _ Fourth time’s the charm?  _ Tink. _

A dozen shots later, and you’re out of bolts. The man, who hasn’t moved from his spot, pulls out a scarlet sword from his belt and begins walking towards you. 

You throw the crossbow at him, in one, last desperate attempt at an attack. He swings his sword in a scarlet arc, and you hear the sound of metal hitting metal, followed by the smell of burning wood. 

Two crossbow halves fall to the ground, both the bronze arm and the oak stock sliced clean through. 

You look at your opponent's blade, gleaming crimson in the sun. Is the metal coloured that way? Or was it stained to look like that?  You raise your hands in surrender, but the man keeps advancing. Only then do the words  _ no forfeit _ bubble to the forefront of your recollection. 

You fall to your knees as the man raises the sword, ready to swing. Maybe you should have asked for prayers to be allowed… it looks like you’ll need them.

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	16. Take Crossbow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501208).

You take the bow, weighing it in your hands, along with a dozen bronze bolts. It’s reassuringly heavy in your hands, and you grin, thinking about how you’ll take your enemy down from afar. 

The man leads you downstairs, and speaks to the referee at the door, giving him a handful of coins. The referee then turns to you. 

“No prayer,” he says. “No forfeit. ???”

You nod, impatiently. You don’t need prayers to get through a fight this easy! The referee then holds out his hands for your share of the pot. You pull out your pouch and spill some coins into your hand. 

How much do you stake?  
  
---  
[Stake 100 Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501553)  
[Stake 500 Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501553)


	17. Stake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Take Sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501280).

The referee takes you money and ushers you inside. You grin even wider now. Maybe you can actually sleep in a  _ nice _ bed tonight, unlike your previous accommodations…

The referee blows a whistle. The scarlet-armoured man across from you nods, and pulls out….

A bunch of flowers? Really? You let out a guffaw, bemused by the ridiculousness of the situation. You knew it would be easy, but not  _ this _ easy…

You begin to raise your sword, but a sharp whistle interrupts you. You look over to the referee, who’s shaking his head. 

What? A fight with no swords? You open your mouth to protest, and are summarily stopped by a bunch of flowers colliding with your face. 

Desperately, you drop the sword and swing your fist at your opponent's face. He blocks it easily, and you hear the referee whistle again. The second blow from the flowers knocks you off your feet, and you land flat on your back, a handful of petals showering down from above. You desperately raise your hands in surrender, but the man keeps attacking. 

“No forfeit,” he says, his faceless voice echoing deep within the helm. He swings and strikes you again.

The whacking continues, and all you can do is lie there, slowly being beaten to death by a man with a bunch of daisies. Eventually, the pain overwhelms you, and you slip into a blissfully vegetative state. As you do so, your last thought echoes:

_ Maybe I shouldn’t have gone here…. _

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	18. Take Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501208).

You take the blade, studying it with a refined eye. Ah, iron! A mighty metal for a mighty warrior. You grab the chainmail as well and slip it over your head. It’s a little baggy, but it’ll protect you from anything this bloke can throw at you, for sure. 

Weapon in hand and armour donned, you head downstairs. The man speaks to the referee at the door and hands him a sack of coins. The referee turns to you. 

“?? ?????” he says. “??? ??????? only. No forfeit. ???”

You nod, impatient. The referee then holds out his hand for your share of the pot. You pull out your pouch and spill a healthy amount of gold. 

How much do you stake?  
  
---  
[Stake 100 Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501337)  
[Stake 500 Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501337)


	19. Go Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156112).

You head right, onto more desert scenery. The camel snorts at you as you pass, and you duck from the inevitable bolus of salvia it summarily launches your way. Blasted creatures! You never really did like them, even if they  _ are _ the favoured creatures of Lord Akthanakos…

As you dodge the spitball, your foot hits something half-buried in the sand. You unearth the object, and find it to be a satchel full of gold. 

Huh. Perhaps Zaros  _ has _ seen to your providence. You pocket the gold, grinning at your good fortune, and continue on your way. 

You get closer to the structure you’d first caught eye of at the crossroads, and see that it seems to be an ancient temple of some sort. Though its stones are dusty, almost blending into the sandy background, they’ve clearly withstood the test of time. Two statues of warriors guard the entrance, and you can see several people bustling within.

You walk through the entrance, eyeing the crowd warily. There are several people wearing white smocks, which bear Saradominist stars. They seem to be bandaging up and healing people the origins of their injuries from which you can’t discern. While they seem too innocuous, you give them a wide berth. 

The others milling about the space all seem to be in the fighting business. Some wear heavy plated armour, their faces hidden behind similarly fortified helms. Others wear loose, flowing robes that you’ve seen mages and praetors don, and still others garb themselves in strange hides and leathers, made from creatures you cannot ascertain. 

There’s a quiet tumult as the warriors speak among each other, and you weave through the crowd as quietly as possible. There’s a set of doors at the other end of the open-air enclosure, though they’re currently closed. You can, however, hear the sound of shouting and metal clashing. 

Spotting a set of stairs, you make your way to higher ground, finding yourself at the top of the wall surrounding the place. As you head towards the sound of metal clashing, you see two figures, a man and a woman, in the middle of an open space, trading blows with their swords. 

The woman swings at the man, who dodges the blow and goes for an opening around the woman’s abdomen; with a flash of steel, she expertly parries it, spinning her wrist and wrenching her opponent's weapon from his grasp.

The sword lands to the ground with a clatter, and the man raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. The woman sheathes her sword, and the two shake hands with a hearty laugh. Nearby, a watching official — he looks like a referee of some sort — steps out of shade and hands the woman a clinking pouch. 

_ Now _ you understand. This place is a Coliseum! A vulgar one, true, but one where warriors can stake their bets and reap the rewards for winning. 

The feeling of the gold in your pocket is far heavier. You’re a disciplined Zarosian warrior, after all. You could take down any one of these ruffians, easy-peasy. 

As you consider this, you feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn to see a man in bright red armour, gleaming scarlet in the sun, his face obscured by a similarly crimson helm. 

“???? ??????” He asks. You can’t tell what he’s saying, but you have a feeling he’s asking for a fight. 

You shake your head, gesturing to the rags you’re wearing. You’d need armour and a weapon if you’d want to stand a chance. 

“? ??? provide,” he says, digging around in his bag. He pulls out a set of chainmail — steel, by the looks of it — as well an iron sword and a crossbow. 

Fortune is  _ definitely _ on your side today. You grin, thinking about what you’ll do with your well-earned winner’s pot when you’re through with him. 

He holds out the sword and the crossbow. It looks like he wants you to choose. Which one do you go with?  
  
---  
[Take Sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501280)  
[Take Crossbow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501403)


	20. Stay with Elena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Stay at the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812027).

You only managed a few delicious mouthfuls of cabbage before losing your breakfast to the floor, and if anything, that’s only made you hungrier. Cute young priests aside, your stomach needs you. And you need your stomach!

Hopefully Elena won’t make that too difficult for you. She seems like the type to hold a grudge.

You bring your used cleaning cloth, using it as an excuse to follow her down to the kitchen. She hears you on the stairs behind her, and turns to regard you with a suspicious eye.

"???? ?? ??? ?????" she groans, as if she'd been looking forward to a relaxing holiday from having to see your face.

You hold up the cloth, assuming she'll have more patience for the "earnest wannabe helper" approach, compared to your usual routine of "charming idiot". You give a little demonstration by wiping a little of the soot from her wood-burning stove.

She sighs, as if to say "fine". She snatches your old dirty rag and swaps it for a new one from a shelf. After dampening it from the tap, she hands it over, then leaves you to it while she gets right back down to her cabbage-chopping.

You take a few stealthy glances at her worktop. There's a nice assortment of knives over there, in varying shapes and lengths... and you can't say you wouldn't appreciate having one of those on you. Given that the worst violence you've experienced here is a raised voice, you’re probably fine for the time being, but still... it can't hurt. Just in case.

You’re pleased with that sighting. It’s a good mental note to have. _Focus on what these people can do for you, not what you can do for them,_ you remind yourself. _Lose sight of the goal and you lose the game. Don’t become anyone’s servant._

There's quite a buildup of soot on Elena’s stove, and it's _not_ proving fun to scrub it all away: you've managed one shiny patch, and very little more. She doesn't even seem to notice or appreciate your handiwork. Instead, she’s staring at her cabbages intensely enough to cook them here and now.

So much for gaining favour with her. There’s still a purpose to being here, though: feed yourself, arm yourself. Not particularly well in either case, but at least it’s better than nothing. If only you could find an opening…

You’ve stopped caring so much about doing any actual cleaning. You’re just going through the motions at this point — got to _look_ busy in case she glances your way. Seems like there’s very little danger of that, though: she’s firmly focused on her work to the exact same extent that you’re _not_.

_So this is it,_ you think. _I got myself into this, and now here I am: Quintus Stoke, Saradominist kitchen cleaner. Please, Sister Elena, go somewhere else so I can get what I came here for._

You don't know how long it takes (could've been ten minutes, could've been ten hours), but _finally_ Elena seems to run out of cabbage to chop. She opens the cabbage sack wide and stares deeply into it, as if that might somehow cause another cabbage to manifest, but eventually sighs and — yes! — turns to the door to leave!

The minute that door is closed, you're over at her worktop, pilfering chopped bits of cabbage that hopefully won't be missed... as much as your stomach would like you to wolf down the whole lot. Can't leave any evidence of your cabbage crimes!

Knives are the next step up on your personal hierarchy of needs. You've got a closer look now: there's one that she was just using, plus two more set aside. You never knew cabbage required such diverse tools.

Hmm. Knives are a lot more difficult to take without being noticed. And for that matter, man cannot live on cabbage alone. It may be worth searching the kitchen a little more intensively, just in case there's something else of value in here. But is it worth it when Sister Elena could walk in at any moment?  
  
---  
[Search the Kitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873348)  
[Don't push your Luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873366)


	21. Go with Catherina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Stay at the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56812027).

Catherina lights up when she sees that you intend to come with her. She practically skips down the stairs from the dining hall, leading you across the courtyard almost too fast for you to keep up.

It’s a small room that she leads you to, mostly dark but with candles strongly illuminating one particular table. There’s a dozen strange implements strewn on the wooden surface: metal clasps, pots of liquid, various brushes, sharp tools for cutting and carving. (You take note of those, eyeing the keen edges in the candlelight’s gleam. There’s no threat to you right now, but it can never hurt to keep some kind of light weapon on hand...)

But the unquestionable centrepiece is a single book lying open on a stand. Catherina seats herself on the low stool in front of it, beckoning you over to join her. You hunch yourself over to look at what she’s working on...

… _wow._

So this is where the Saradominists put all their colours. Clearly you never got close enough to the missionaries to see the books they were reading from. You still prefer decent-looking vestments, to be honest, but you’re not about to complain when you’re face to face with artwork like _this_.

Catherina dips a brush into one of the little pots. It comes out dripping with vibrant, textured gold; the flecks in it capture the candlelight. She wipes it on the rim of the pot, then brings it to the book, where she traces an elegant curve on the edge of a grand letter S. (For "Saradomin", naturally.)

Wait. You can read this! No, not quite all of it: it's still a foreign language, just a different one that more closely resembles your own. It's enough to grasp the story as your eyes flick down the page: it's about a saint named Elspeth whose singing voice was supposedly so beautiful and holy that it could drive back a ripper demon. And in case it wasn’t already clear that the story's been stretched a little... apparently this ripper demon was in the service of Zamorak, which is certainly a new one on you. Everyone spoke of that traitor posturing himself as the “hero of the Avernic” — surely a ripper would be too Chthonian for his tastes?

You suppose all demons seem the same to a Saradominist. You spent the first fifteen years of your life sharing a city with Chthonians and Avernic alike, so… yeah, you know better.

(You briefly entertain the thought of learning to sing well enough to keep demon guards away. Nah, you'd probably just annoy them.)

Catherina sets the current brush aside, drawing your attention again. Looks like she's switching to a brilliant blue that shimmers with tiny specks of gold. She watches the tip of the brush with an intense stare, not letting a single drop fall where it shouldn't be. You suspect this glistening pigment might be worth more than anything else in this place. (Gotta squash your temptation to steal it. Instant gratification will have to wait.)

Onto the page, laid on in quick strokes. She leads through a series of dots and flicks, forming a vibrant trail on the vellum. There's no recklessness in her speed; it's more the product of an unwavering focus, as if she and the pattern are dancing in perfect rhythm.

Her fidgeting from earlier has disappeared — all that energy's been channelled to the brush. She's mesmerising like this. You could watch her for hou—

"Sister Catherina." The door is flung open and daylight floods in, blocked only by Sister Anna. She casts a long shadow on the temple floor. "??? ??? [bringing in?] ??? ?????? ?? ???? ??????????" There's a definite edge to that polite tone of hers.

Anna strides to the table, puts a hand on there to steady herself and leans down to talk to Catherina — who seems rattled, now that she's been thoroughly shaken from her focus. Anna's still ignoring you, gesturing sharply at the open book instead. "?? ???? ??????, ???'? ??? ??? ???? ?? proud."

"No, Sister Anna, ?'? not proud," Catherina says a little too quickly. Saradomin forbid anyone be _proud_ of their handiwork, huh? "?’? ???? ????? ?? ???? ??? glory ?? Saradomin."

Her superior nods firmly. "?? ?? ?????? ??. ???? ????. Saradomin ???? ?? pleased." You notice Anna's eyes briefly flicker in your direction, and you can't fathom what that means. Looking at her, though, there's an uncomfortably familiar sense you get from her: she has the posture and rigidity of a drill sergeant. You wouldn't go stealing _her_ dessert in a hurry... though it's perfectly possible that Saradomin's plan simply leaves no room for dessert.

Anna continues: "? ????? ???? ?????? ????? ???? appreciates ??? glory ?? Saradomin?"

Catherina gives you a frantic look — you take it that Anna had been questioning _your_ presence here — and hurriedly confirms for her: "???, Sister Anna, ?'?? ????? ???? ??????? ?? dedicated ?? ??? ???? texts."

Looks like this has left Anna satisfied — for now. "?'? ????," she says, returning to the doorway. Framed by the light, she turns back to leave one more pointed reminder: "???? ?? ??? ????? ?? Saradomin."

That had the tone of a warning. As Catherina bows her head in humble obedience, and as Anna leaves without closing the door, you wonder: has she been in trouble before, or is Anna just overly strict with her?

You're inclined to think it's the latter, but Catherina's beginning to change your mind: she waits a few cautious breaths before getting up to close the door. Once more, it's just the two of you, left alone in the candlelight.

Damn your pilgrim act. There's something you want to tell her.

You usher her from the door back to the book, still an oasis of illumination in the dark. You scan the text for a particular word... there! An adjective, one of the ones used for Saint Elspeth's voice.

Making sure she sees, you point a hand at the grand decorated letter, where her brushstrokes still glisten wet. Then, with one fingertip, you show her the word you had in mind: _beautiful._

And in a snap decision — to Infernus with playing it safe! — you speak the very first word you've said in your whole damn time at this temple. It's similar to one you know, but you try your best to match how these people have said it, to make absolutely sure that Catherina knows:

" _Proud._ "

She gasps. There's a trace of fear in her open eyes, and yet...

Her breathing is a little heavier now: even through those thick robes, you can see her chest rise and fall. You're barely two inches shorter than her, a fact that’s more apparent with every step she takes closer to you — you find yourself looking up to meet her gaze.

When you're so close that you're nearly touching, when she holds both of your hands in hers, and you feel just how much those fingers are shaking... maybe Sister Anna's warning planted an idea in her head that wasn't there before. Or maybe she's been silently hoping for this all along.

You’re frozen where you stand, hands in hers, your line of vision level with her lips. Every breath is one you have to remind yourself to take — and each one feels like an hour.

Should you be doing this? Despite all her nervousness, it really seems like she wants to... which means the decision's on you.

Her candlelit eyes look to yours, waiting for your response.  
  
---  
[Kiss Her](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194688)  
[Don't Kiss Her](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58195588)


	22. Part Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Lift Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57155881).

You shake your head. This man may know a little Infernal, but that won’t be enough to get you home. You’ll probably have better luck getting back to the empire on your own. 

He seems to take it well, and gives you a smile that’s tinged with sadness. 

“Good luck!” he says. “I prepare for meeting with you again.”

You smile back. Perhaps you will meet him again. Part of you hopes you will. You reach out your hand again, almost unthinkingly, and, to your surprise, he grabs your arm rather firmly, giving it a little shake. You return the gesture. 

“Goodbye,” you say. “Thank you.”

He nods, and lets go. Without another word, he turns away, gracefully sailing over the rooftops and leaving you standing alone.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156112)


	23. Go with Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Lift Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57155881).

It's already a relief to have someone who knows your language, even if it’s as roughly as Ozan does. And now that he's tempting you with a fluent speaker? You'd have taken a two-way conversation for granted two days ago, even if you only had surly Kharid-et prison guards to speak to. Now, though, you're willing to go to any lengths just to finally _talk._

You nod approval at Ozan, and he beams at you. "Come!" he says, taking a run-up and then — launching himself over a gap between buildings, as if the two-storey drop was nothing to him!

He doesn't seriously expect you to do _that_ , does he?! You teeter timidly at the edge, looking at Ozan to avoid looking down. Though you can't quite tell from here, you're willing to bet he's quite a bit taller than you are. Long legs made for springing him effortlessly across buildings like that. You couldn't even hope to match him.

"You cannot?" Ozan shouts from across the divide.

"I cannot!" you squeak.

He nods, then pulls off another of his magical flying leaps. No time to dodge, and no need to — he lands in a head-first roll right beside you, then uncurls immediately to a standing position. (How does he _do_ that?)

"We walk," he says, not a hint of disappointment in his tone. He climbs back down the way you both came, again scurrying as easily as a spider, then calls from ground level: "Quint?"

Going _down_ that way is even worse than going up. Only by sheer luck do you not spend most of it in freefall: every slip is mercifully accompanied by a new foothold just a little further down. Near the bottom, it's a _literal_ foothold when Ozan grabs your sandalled foot to guide it onto a (relatively) stable wooden beam. He's got a firm grip, and you can feel the roughness of his fingertips.

You finally jump the last few feet to the ground. Naturally, you've misjudged the distance, and your knees get a jolt on impact for your trouble.

Ozan swings an arm around your shoulders, casually, easily. Every movement he makes is just so _slick._ "Come, Quint! To desert!"

"The desert?" You exclaim. "Not the city?" You hadn't expected to be leaving this place so quickly.

"Friend in Nardah is," he says, as if that means anything to you. "South. In desert."

"We’re walking in the desert?" You're hardly dressed for long-distance walking, and you've certainly done enough of it already.

"I know beautiful..." Ozan seems to be racking his brains. "We walk beautiful? Beautiful... road? Good road. Water. Birds. Sun. Beautiful!" He performs big flourishes with his hands to help get across... whatever point he's making.

At least he's not _always_ so slick. Still enthusiastic about whatever nonsense he's saying, though. And any Infernal is music to your ears right now. Desperate as you are, you'd follow damn near any instruction if it was given to you in Infernal.

"We walk," you agree.

And so the two of you walk.

You come to the edge of the city, though not one you've seen before: presumably, this is Ozan's foretold "south.” "South" looks like a small passage between two rocky cliffs, with a musician set up opposite a small barred-up building. The desert itself lies beyond two door-sized gaps in a brick wall, with wooden planks lain on top to complete the makeshift doorframes. One decidedly well-dressed man stands in front of them — a one-person marker of the line between city and open desert.

Ozan nods at the musician. "Miriam," he says. Her mouth smiles around the instrument she's playing, and while she's too busy with that to respond vocally, you do notice her wink... with the eye _not_ facing the man at the doorways.

Speaking of which... "Shantaaaayyy!"

" _Ozan,_ " Shantay responds, his tone the exact opposite of Ozan's enthusiasm. "?'?? ??? ??? ? ???? ?? ??? ??? ??? ???????, Al-Kharid ??? ?? damned."

One part of that throws you a little. "Al Kharid?" you ask Ozan.

"This city!" he responds, incredulous. You shut up and don't ask anything else that could reveal any... strange coincidences.

Ozan flashes a grin at Shantay, then saunters over to a wooden chest on the ground. There's a cloth awning nearby, which you immediately get under, happy at last to be standing in the shade.

On the front of the chest is a grid with ten red squares. Ozan presses four of them, then tries the lid of the chest: it comes right open.

Huh. Could this chest be Ozan's? Or is this man stealing from Shantay right before his eyes? You're not sure what that'd make him: confident, foolish or both. It's probably what sent him to jail in the first place.

From the chest, Ozan takes...

... actually, you have no idea how he's taking all this out of one chest. There are two large backpacks, each of which look far bigger than the chest on their own, not to mention the waterskins, various items of clothing, and some small blue cards. Altogether _far_ too many of those.

"Be here," Ozan tells you, having you stand by the large mountain of improbable chest items as he steals away with a few pieces of clothing. He heads over to the barred building, fetches something from his pocket, and gets to work on the door's lock.

"??, ?? ??????," Shantay grouches loudly at him. "???? ????????, ??? ???'? ???."

Ozan takes a minute or so in there. In the meantime, Shantay looks at you with a suspicious eye; he asks some question, but you catch none of it, answering with only a shrug. He loses interest in you quickly, instead watching over a few other visitors to the passageway. Some come to listen to the musician, who plays them an energetic tune. Others pass right through the doorways, unimpeded. Shantay appears to be offering various wares from his shelves, but much to his chagrin, there's no takers.

The barred door swings right open, and Ozan emerges, now covered by white robes from head to toe. He comes back over to the chest, pops his old clothes into it, and stands by your side.

"Now you!" he says, gathering up the rest of the clothes and lumping them into your arms. He jerks a thumb back at the little building. He's the one guarding the various bags and rectangles this time, leaving you free to go over there.

You peer inside, and... yeah, this is a jail cell: a tiny, cramped one equipped with nothing but a bench and an empty bucket. Seeing as Ozan's now co-opted it as a changing room, you may as well do the same as he did. You're relieved to swap out your filthy sandblasted clothing for a set of bright white robes.

(The robe skirt is a good few inches too long for your relatively short legs. You roll up the waistband to make up for it, hiding the evidence under the baggy shirt and hoping it doesn't unroll as you walk.)

Once fully dressed, you leave the jail cell changing room; Ozan cheers at your new look. In whatever language they share, he loudly thanks Shantay for the use of the cell, adding some comment that, from whatever you catch, seems to be a request for a mirror in there. Shantay issues a sharp "tch!" in return.

One more thing left to do: Ozan gives you a waterskin with a strap to sling over your shoulder, then does the same with one of his. You each take a backpack, and you say a silent prayer of thanks for how surprisingly light yours is. Then you're all set to enter the expanse of desert beyond.

Ozan flashes a good handful of the blue cards at Shantay, wiggling them under his nose and then snatching them away. Shantay dramatically rolls his eyes, and makes a point of ignoring Ozan as the two of you pass through his little doorways.

Once you're a little distance away, you ask him: "What was that?"

"Shantay joke," Ozan explains. He appears to be the only one who finds it funny.

Nearby is something unlike anything you've seen before: under the supervision of one man and one monkey, people appear to be stepping onto colourful rugs and then flying off into the distance.

"Why are we walking when _that's_ an option?" you ask Ozan.

"Huh?"

Right, you'll have to try that again. "Look!" You point at the latest person to be lifted into the sky via the magic of dyed textiles. "Why not us?"

"Uh..." Ozan's fingers fiddle with the sleeve of his robe. "I steal... vote? Rug! Magic rug. Not happy. And I cannot ride steal rug! They lock with magic. Ariane not wants to help ride rug..."

He tails off, but you get the picture. _Good going, Ozan..._ you think, as if you wouldn't have done the exact same.

"So we walk," you conclude.

"We walk," Ozan confirms, a little embarrassed. You both make sure to give the rug station a wide berth as you pass.

* * *

It was definitely a stretch for Ozan to be calling this a "road". There's nothing to mark it out as even a discernible _path._ How he finds his way across stretches of empty desert like this, you have no idea.

He wasn't wrong about it being beautiful, though. You see a golden bird fly overhead every now and then, its feathers seemingly aflame in the sunlight. You pass by the meandering river every now and then, flanked by glistening palm trees, though Ozan urges you to keep at a distance. From the occasional glance you catch of bizarre armoured reptiles in the water, it's not hard to understand why.

What keeps you occupied on the walk, though, is Ozan's storytelling. He's only half comprehensible at the best of times, but his frequent misspeakings have your imagination in overdrive: is he _really_ claiming to have ridden a flying circus elephant to escape from guards after a robbery, or were some of those words a little off? (And if he _is_ telling the truth, then why aren't the two of you flying on an elephant right now?)

In all honesty, though, you couldn't care less whether his stories are true or not. They're _entertaining,_ and the fun he has with telling them is contagious. He's got a remarkably soothing voice, as well. The more you hear of it, the more at ease you feel, the happier you are to be spending this time with him. You almost suspect that throwing his friend into the mix would spoil the fun.

"And you, Quint?"

"Huh?" You'd been so lulled into hearing him speak that you hadn't anticipated needing to respond. "Oh. Uhh..."

You're probably making a bad impression with that, but the truth is, you don't know what to say. Whose side is he on? You don't recognise this area (barring the name "Kharid", which lingers uneasily at the back of your mind), but he'd have to be aware of the conflict that's currently consuming your section of the world. _Everyone_ knows about the Empire.

There are so many missteps you could make here. The simplest way out is...

"I'm nobody," you say. "I don't have a story."

Ozan takes your shoulder, stopping both of you in your tracks. "Quint. You are not nobody!" His grip and his voice are gentler than before, and you just can't stand the pity.

You're _not_ nobody. You know it. You're Quintus Stoke, born in the greatest city of the world's greatest empire. And even though it all went wrong, you've always liked to think that everyone who survived it still keeps that greatness alive.

But how have you expressed that? Becoming a petty thief? Stealing a sergeant's dessert, stealing fruit from a stall, and failing miserably on both counts? You've spent time in three different jail cells recently, even if the last one doesn't really count. What kind of greatness do you represent?

Maybe you _are_ worth pitying.

"Quint?" Ozan's still concerned for you. He's giving your shoulder a squeeze.

You don't know what to say.

"Quint..." You see all the tension in his face. You know he's trying to comfort you, but you doubt he'll have much luck with it, given the unavoidable stiltedness of his broken Infernal.

You try to dissuade him from whatever he's about to say. "Ozan. It's good. Don't —"

" _Quint._ "

Is this important to him? Are _you_ important to him? You just met him!

"You can be great. You _can_." And he means it. He can barely say it, but it's genuine all the same. He squeezes those big fingertips into your shoulder, and you... you really like the feeling of him holding you like that. Reassuring you.

"Thank you," you tell him.

He pulls you into a full hug, tight and warm and unapologetic, and you don't ever want him to let go. You close your eyes and savour every second that this lasts.

You're sad when he lets go, but you won't dare ask for that again. And yet it's on your mind for all the rest of the walk.

* * *

The two of you come up to a pool of water, isolated in all the dryness of the desert. Low trees are clustered all around it, all trying to get their share. There don't seem to be any animals, though, and certainly no reptiles like the ones you saw in the river — which means that you and Ozan get it all to yourselves.

"Beautiful!" Ozan yells. He rips his boots off and flings them beside him, then runs right into it with the rest of his clothes still on. He happily wades to its deepest point, his soggy robes swooshing along behind him.

He lets out a big, long, happy sigh... and then turns back to you. "Quint?"

You're a little nervous, but you make it seem less scary by recontextualising it as a big outdoor bath — which is _definitely_ something you could do with after a walk like this.

You're not about to charge in like he did, though. You remove your boots, then approach the edge of the water. One tentative toe dipped in, then another...

Ozan sends a wave of water splashing at you, soaking your legs and the bottom of your robe. It's cold, but by the Lord it is a _welcome_ cold after so long out in the sun.

But still: "Hey!"

He laughs. How _dare_ he.

Well, it's hardly a fair fight if you're not going to fight back. Now that your feet are truly soaked, you may as well stick one entirely in the water... and kick as much as you can manage right back at him. _Ha!_

"Whoa!" Ozan laughs. Oh, he's going in with both hands now! Two tidal waves at once, both headed straight for you. You're going to have to time your counterattack well, but you think you can do it —

You jump! You avoid most of the spray he's sent your way, and your landing in the water brings forth a _massive_ explosion of water in all possible directions — especially his.

The devastation is absolute. There are no survivors. Both of you are now _thoroughly_ soaked.

Ozan is in awe of your water fight tactics, knowing nothing of your years honing them in childhood visits to the baths. _He was right,_ you reflect. _I_ can _be great._

Between being jailed at Kharid-et and being jailed again here, you really haven't had many opportunities for baths recently. "This is so good," you say to Ozan, and he heartily agrees.

Looking at him, it's hard not to notice exactly how well his shirt is now clinging to his body. And once you _do_ notice... you keep noticing, and don't stop. You try to be a little more subtle about it, but it's no use: looks like Ozan's spotted your interest. He flashes you that great big grin, and... _oh._ He's taking off his shirt entirely. Easier said than done given how wet it is, but he manages, and...

Good thing you've got the water to help cool you down. Any more of this, though, and you might end up boiling it.

He's not expecting reciprocation from you, is he? Your own shirt's probably hiding just as little as his was, but taking it off would only be a disappointment. Looking at the way he's shaped, you can tell he's the kind of person that can leap across buildings without a second thought. One look at you only confirms that the Zarosian Army's _really_ getting desperate.

You haven't noticed it until now, but you've kind of frozen up. Meanwhile, Ozan's waded right over to you, _far_ closer than the considerable six foot distance he'd been keeping from you before, and has his hands on the hem of your shirt... ready to return the favour.

 _Not much of a favour you'll be doing yourself there, Ozan,_ you think.

You give him a nod regardless, though. May as well get this over with.

What follows is a two-person struggle, as the two of you try and mostly fail to get this sopping wet thing off you. Ozan manages it with one final yank, and tosses it aside to float in the water with his own.

Oh Lord, he's looking. He doesn't seem disgusted, for whatever that's worth. No, you can't stand a second more of this embarrassment. You need a distraction —

Like a hefty splash of water, right in his face.

"Hey!" Ozan half-laughs, half-splutters. "Bad, Quint!"

Well, sure. It's a dirty tactic, but it _worked._

Oh no. Oh _no._ He's making a dive for his wet shirt! You'll have to get yours if you want any hope against this advanced new weapon. Lord forbid he ends up with _both_ of them — you'd be defenceless!

And so the battle begins anew...

* * *

Your deadly water combat has finally reached its end. You don't think you can determine a winner; what would be the deciding factor? Who laughed the most over their various victories? That'd be impossible to call.

Ozan slings his arm over your shoulders again, pulling you in and hugging you tight, rubbing one big hand affectionately over your army regulation short hair. "Good game, Quint!" he declares as the two of you emerge from the water.

"Good game," you agree, warm and happy. Your robe skirt, thoroughly unrolled after all your intense battling, is dragging far longer than your legs give it room for. You don't care.

Once the two of you have set up a tent for the night, you gather up a few dried and dead branches from the surrounding area. Ozan has no trouble lighting them, and soon the flames are blazing bright.

The shirts that served you well in battle end up drying out by the fire, hanging on a rack that Ozan improvised out of twigs. You're surprised when he takes off his robe skirt as well — but he _does_ have undergarments on, or you'd be seeing a lot more than you bargained for. You follow him in taking off the rest of your robes, figuring that your legs can't be any more disappointing than your upper body was.

The two of you sit by the fire, cross-legged. He's telling more of his stories, of course, and his face is lit up by the glow. You have the strongest urge to lean against him, but given the present state of undress the two of you are in... you resist. Somehow.

You could've stayed there forever, but it's probably for your own good that Ozan eventually gets up and moves into the tent. The fire's done a good job of drying you out for the night. Now to settle down and sleep.

Ozan digs into his backpack, bringing out a thick rolled-up mat that he lays out on the floor. A blanket comes next, which he bundles up under his arm. You search in your own pack for the same, and... there's a blanket, but no mat. Is _that_ why your pack was so light?

"Hmm," Ozan says.

"One mat," you say.

"I see."

What was that earlier about never feeling that physical closeness again? Something tells you you're gonna be feeling a _lot_ of that tonight.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834745)  
[Skip to the Next Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873225)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Li'l note from Fenn (the artist formerly known as Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun) -- though this path is Chaos_Elemental territory, this chapter and the "Continue" following directly on from it were written by me.
> 
> (some of Chaos' writing has snuck into my path too, but if you're reading update-by-update, then you won't be seeing that chapter until next week)


	24. Continue (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go with Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834775).
> 
> ****  
> Non-explicit sexual content.  
> 
> 
> (note: we're aiming for no content above an M rating)

"I sleep here?" Ozan gestures to the floor beside it, with only the groundsheet between him and the soon-to-be-cold sand. Which you can't imagine would be very much fun. That's out of the question... but it also doesn't mean you want to bite the arrowhead and take the floor yourself.

And inevitably, that leaves...

"You and me. Here." You hope that gets the message across... although, when Ozan's eyebrows scoot upwards by damn near an inch, you realise exactly how that phrasing is very much open to interpretation.

You're not entirely opposed to that. You're baffled by the thought that he might even be _considering_ that... but if he genuinely is, then you really can't say you're not flattered. And you might, in fact, even be on the brink of some _interpretation_ yourself.

Ozan makes the first move: he lies on his side on the left half of the mat, leaving space for you to join him on the right. He looks up at you over his shoulder, waiting for you...

... as you step over him to lie down in that space, your back to his front, your head in front of his. There's no room for your bodies _not_ to come into contact, and his fire-warmed chest feels _wonderful_ against your back, but you avoid pressing the full length of your body against his. For now.

Ozan brings his arm forward to wrap around your chest, holding you close, and it's almost too much to bear. It's been years since the last time you felt this safe: here you are, in the middle of the desert with someone you met today, and you feel more protected than you've felt for the last few years of your life.

It's almost pathetic. There's still that tinge to the feeling. But for the time being, the feeling of safety is overwhelming that by far.

You brush a palm along his forearm, feeling its smoothness and its strength, and all the while you're pulling it more tightly close to you. You need to be held by every ounce of strength he's got. For the most part, that's all you want.

But you're torn, because there's a part of you that isn't satisfied by this alone. That urge is constantly becoming more intense, and… well, he'll still be able to hold you afterwards. You stay right where you are for a few blissful, frustrated minutes, but there's a point at which the other instinct becomes too strong. You can't ignore that any longer. 

You gently lift his arm off you, and while his initial reaction is to shuffle his body away for your sake, you quickly correct that first impression: you roll onto your other side and face him. One of your hands goes to the back of his head, with your fingers in his hair and your thumb at the stubble on his jaw. The other, the hand underneath your body on the bed, goes to snake around the shoulder he's lying on, curling over it onto his back.

His lips are parted just slightly; you can feel his breath on your skin. His eyes are open, looking for an answer in yours. You press your forehead to his… and your noses have an unglamorous collision in the process. You worry a little too much about how embarrassingly that comes off, but the little laugh he responds with is undeniably affectionate.

Lord, how is this happening? Why isn't he sick of you yet? You half worry that it's all an act, that this is all designed to trap you into whatever schemes he might have.

But if it's an act… it's working. It's made you feel better than you've felt in so, so long, and you're not about to give up on that now. It's foolish, and you _know_ it is, but it's impossible not to be a fool when he's tilting his lips towards you.

You close the distance and kiss him.

You're out of practice, but you're _least_ good enough not to do the nose bump thing again, and soon you're deep into the kiss, pulling your bodies together all the while. You've hooked a foot around his legs without even noticing, and he's slipped his arms right back around you where they belong, and in the renewed closeness you're getting a real good sense of the way his body's responding. 

At some point — though it's hard to pinpoint one moment, in the growing intensity of the whole — you realise you'd make much better use of the narrow mat if one of you got on top of the other. It doesn't take long for things to escalate from there.

(And once you're done, he holds you again, as tightly as he can. You fall asleep quickly afterwards, in an exhausted kind of happiness.)  
  
---  
[Wake Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873225)


	25. Go Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156112).

The greenery and sound of the river call you, and you find yourself enraptured by their lull, your feet walking halfway of their own accord to the left.

There are a couple of armed guards standing by the gate, holding what appear to be barbaric blades on poles. You stiffen, wondering what paltry, non-verbal excuse you’ll have to give in order to gain passage. However, as you approach, the guards simply stand aside, pulling their strange weapons towards them.

You stop. They don’t seem to be making any moves, or even looking at you. If anything, they seem supremely bored.

You step forward, pushing the gate open. The guards remain inactive, and you walk through without incident.

_Some security_ , you think. Even getting into a dump like Kharid-et would have earned anyone lower than a legatus a round of questioning, at the very least — much less an outsider like you.

As you pass through the gate, you take in the scene before you. The babbling of the river is louder now, and you can see a grey-stoned fortress across it, modestly sized, but still imposing. The two banks are connected by a bridge, and the side you’re on seems to be populated by several rather wrecked-looking wooden houses.

You ignore the houses, and head towards the bridge. If you can find a main path, you might actually be able to find out where you’ve landed. All roads lead to Senntisten, after all.

As you head towards the bridge, a flash of movement catches your eye. You glance over, subsequently clamp your hand over your mouth as you suppress a scream.

A goblin, green and grunting, is standing to your right. It holds a bronze spear in its gnarly hand, dragging the end of it in the dirt as it shuffles about.

You freeze. You’ve heard of goblins before — though they’re small, they’re vicious, you’ve heard; cunning and ruthless in battle, mighty foot soldiers in Bandos’s heathen armies, and as mercenaries in others. They’ll cut the limbs off of their enemies as war trophies, you’d heard. They’ll set themselves on fire and launch themselves out of catapults, preferring to immolate the opposing side with their burning, flailing bodies than seek self preservation. One centurion even told you that their war-tents were made of flayed human skin…

The goblin doesn’t seem to notice you. In fact, it’s currently occupied with excavating the contents of its nose, with great enthusiasm.

_Probably a part of its greater strategy,_ you think, as you slowly tiptoe your way around the creature. Fortunately, your superior stealth allows you to bypass it, and you safely make your way across the bridge.

The other side seems to be mercifully free of goblins. The buildings here are in good working shape, and you can see the locals going about their business. There are a few of those strangely-dressed people, too, headed through the fortress archways and fishing in the river. There’s a shouting man on top of a box, thumping a staff on the ground and yelling about something in a foreign tongue.

You give him a wide berth, and head towards the fortress. As you do, a smallish crowd of people just outside of its walls catches your eye. There’s a man, dressed in a blue uniform, who’s handing out swords to gathering passersby.

Aha! A way to find a weapon. You head over to the crowd, waiting in the back until you’re able to shuffle forth and take a blade.

It’s a little lighter than you expect, though it gleams with the cold grey of steel. You weigh the blue pommel in your hands, noting how it’s strangely long and thin. It’s no gladius, but it’ll do.

The man in blue is saying something to you. You can’t understand his words, but you understand his intent when he points you to a row of straw dummies lined up against the fortress wall. He must be a combat instructor of some sort, and he wants you to train. You suppress a laugh. You’re a trained Zarosian soldier, not a recruit fresh out of Kharyll!

The instructor sees your disdain, and points across the river. There, you can see a smallish building surrounded by chickens. You can see a man there, chasing the birds around with a bronze dagger.

Ah. So an upgrade from dummies would be killing farm animals, it seems. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to polish off your sword fighting skills, even if it is on a bunch of chickens.

As you start to make your way towards the bridge, an idea forms in your head. Why not kill a goblin? That would be a good way to get some attention — and maybe some good loot as well.

What do you train on?  
  
---  
[Train on Chickens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872841)  
[Try to kill a Goblin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873081)


	26. Follow Valerio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156094).
> 
>   
> **Archive warnings for violence and major character death.**  
> 

Sleep be damned: if there's a chance you can follow up your best day in years with your best night in years? Yeah, it doesn't take long for your nosy bastard tendencies to win out.

You scramble for your satchel in the dim light, finding and wriggling into your heavy temple robes for protection against the cold night. Briefly, you consider that showing up in Saradominist garb might give the wrong impression at whatever Valerio's got in store... but hey, who says it's not a costume party?

By the time you've slipped on your sandals and emerged from your tent, there's no sign of Valerio. No silhouette making for the lights of the city, that's for sure.

 _Can't hurt heading in that direction anyway,_ you think, and set off.

It takes some distance into your walk for you to realise what a foolish idea this is. Heading into an unfamiliar city at night? Completely alone, at that, because all across the starlit landscape, you _still_ can't make out a single figure.

In the interests of not getting robbed or murdered in the dark streets of the city, you decide to turn yourself around—

— and _now_ you see him! Pretty distant by this point, but you recognise the wide brim of his hat as he traverses the peak of a dune. Strange, though, as this means he's heading _away_ from the city. The only thing in that direction... is the temple.

Interesting. You didn't see anything worth stealing, and he doesn't strike you as the religious type (not that they'd be running services at this time of night). There's one other explanation that comes to mind. An attractive man sneaking off to a women's temple in the night...

Who's the lucky priest? Probably _not_ the shouty one.

Well, that raises some mixed feelings for you. Your inner nosy bastard is more intrigued than ever, though. Clearly one of those priests isn't as devout as you thought, and that's more interesting to you than anything else you encountered there.

You're also just glad you haven't lost Valerio for the night.

Onwards, then. He's almost out of sight, but since you know his destination now, you won't have any issues with following him to it. Once you're there, though... you don't intend on getting _too_ involved in his personal business. Just snoop around enough to sate your curiosity, and then you'll call it a night.

As you walk, one footstep lands differently to the others. You freeze where you stand for a heartbeat, and then—

The sand erupts beneath you. You're launched a yard into the air before crashing ungracefully to the ground, where you watch in horror. Before you, streams of sand are rising into the air, aligning themselves into an unnatural unity: one segment forms, then slides up to make room for the next coalescing beneath it. A million grains somehow solidify into a hard carapace — one that your meagre training gives you no hope of breaking, certainly not unarmed.

Your locked limbs start remembering how to move. Your quivering arms push you up onto your feet, but the surface supporting you vanishes before you can run. You fall face-first back onto sand that's still slipping away under you; you can feel it scrape scratches along every inch of your exposed skin. You close your mouth to protect yourself, yet still the grains tear shreds through your lips.

And then the sand is still. Behind you, the fully-formed strykewyrm screeches a single piercing note, louder than you've ever heard. The sound strikes right through you.

Now's your chance! You have to run! Your hands and feet try to get a hold on the sand, needing desperately to find _some_ firm footing —

Two hot, sharp points stab through your shoulder, spearing easily through the fabric, biting into your taut skin and beyond it. Your muscles seize up around the wound, only damaging it more in the process. You cry out: a hoarse, wordless scream.

No use. You're plucked from the ground as easily as a daisy's stem snapping. It hoists you into the sky, skewered on its teeth, suspended by your wounds in mid-air. Your eyes are screwed shut, not daring to see what it's done to you. Your feet dangle uselessly below.

A shout — "Quint!" — in Valerio's voice!

You open your eyes, and see it all at once: the torn fabric stained red at your shoulder, the gathered troubadours staring up at you, a heavily robed Valerio running behind to join them. Despite your blurry vision, you can tell no one's armed, and by the Lord, you _can't_ have this happen to them!

"GO!" you scream. In Infernal, but _you don't care_.

The strykewyrm tosses its head back behind you, wrenching its fangs free and whipping you into the air. You fall backwards into its jaws.

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't be a nosy bastard, kids


	27. Get some Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156094).

As nosy as you are, the thought of being out in that cold night does _not_ appeal to you. Now that you've managed to land yourself shelter from sunset to sunrise, you'd be a fool not to take advantage of it.

Your tired mind briefly considers asking him about it tomorrow… until you realise you'd have to do so in mine. You sleepily entertain yourself by wondering how _that'd_ work out. In all your exhaustion, the imagination starts blending seamlessly into dreams, and before you know it, you're fully passed out.

* * *

You get dressed in your costume to start off a new day. You don't know if you'll be performing today — the troupe might perform _every_ day, for all you know — but the choice was between your performance outfit and your temple robes. Or your nightclothes, you suppose; your laziness would _like_ to laze around in nightclothes all day, but realistically, that's not going to be an option. Just like anywhere else, you're going to have to earn your keep.

You open up the tent flap, and...

Valerio’s already awake. He’s sitting cross-legged by the ashes of the campfire, hunched over a small notebook in his lap. Quill in hand, he's scribbling away, crossing out and continuing, and all without breaking focus. You don't think he even noticed you.

Emmeline, the musician on the string instrument, is also already awake. She's sitting on one of the rugs, eating breakfast from a small bowl. Her eyes are fixed on Valerio, watching him from behind with a tense expression. That confirms something for you: until now, you couldn't be sure whether this was normal Valerio behaviour or not. Now, though? This is _definitely_ unusual.

You join Emmeline on the rug to ask her a few questions.

You indicate Valerio with an open palm in his direction: _what's happening with him?_ She shrugs, as genuinely confused as you are.

You lightly prod the bowl: _W_ _here's the food?_ She turns her head and nods at a tent roughly behind her, and you thank her with a nod of your own.

Well, that's half your questions answered. You're wary of disturbing Valerio in such a state of focus, but hopefully he'll be able to answer your question later.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60246271)


	28. Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Fess Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156016).

You shake your head. He seems kind, but you don’t want to take any risks. He nods, sadly, and waves you goodbye as you disappear into the crowd.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156112)


	29. Trust Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Fess Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57156016).

You nod, slowly. As a gesture of goodwill, you extend an arm. Your father always told you you could tell a man integrity by the firmness of his arm-grip. 

Instead, he takes your hand, You freeze. Is he trying to tell you something? You mean, he’s not bad looking. Dark hair. Boyish smile. Good strong nose. But, for the honor of Zaros, you don’t even know his name!

He releases your hand, giving you a strange look. “Sir End,” he says, pointing to himself.

“Quint,” you say, gesturing to himself. He smiles again, and digs around in his side pack, retrieving a clay tablet with several markings carved into it.

Oh, they use tablets around here for writing? Perhaps it’s a primitive dictionary of some sort. Those poor sods. Wait until you tell them about vellum!

Instead, he grabs your shoulder without warning and smashes the tablet on the ground. 

You shout in surprise as the world shimmers around you. The sand and city fade away, replaced by a brightly-lit town square. It’s far cooler and more airy here; the buildings, all built out of gleaming white marble, are more spaced out, and you can actually see grass in between the paths of the cobblestones. In front of you, you can see a castle, ringed by a moat and sentried by a pair of knights, wearing armour similar to Sir End’s. To your left, you can see a park full of flowers and greenery.

You back away in surprise, tripping over a statue plinth just behind you. Odd. Why have a statue plinth with no statue?

Sir End offers a hand, stammering what sounds like an apology. You begrudgingly take it, and he lifts you off the ground with ease. Are teleportation magicks truly that easy to cheap to obtain here? The only ones in Senntisten who could use it were mahjarrat and high mages. Hmm. It could be useful to take back to the empire…

If you ever make it back, of course.

The knight starts walking towards the park, It seems that he wants you to follow. You’d better go with him — and seeing some plant life after all that time in the blasted desert would be good for your nerves.

The castle, however, has its own appeal. Who knows what Saradominist secrets you can find in there? Maybe something juicy will convince your sergeant to excuse you of your transgressions...

Where do you go?  
  
---  
[Go to the Castle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194478)  
[Go to the Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194409)


	30. Don't Kiss Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go with Catherina.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57510562)

You slip your hands out of hers, wrapping your arms around her body instead. You pull her close into a hug — it may not have been the response she was hoping for, but as she sinks into you, you can tell she’s grateful all the same.

The two of you hold each other there for a while, suspended in candlelight, and you feel her shaking slowly come to a stop in your arms. Just her breathing, now, and it’s slowly becoming more steady. You feel her above you and against you.

You don’t want to move. You want to be wrapped up in her arms, in the sound and sensation of her breathing, for as long as you can. Lord, you’ve missed this.

You try to remember the last time someone held you like this… must’ve been three years ago. The training camp, a year after you fled Senntisten. You and he had known that you’d be assigned halfway across the world from each other, with no certainty of ever seeing each other again, and so… you’d snuck out. Found his dorm, woken him quietly, and slipped away to a secret place that you both knew.

Far from home. Hiding in the dark. Taking all the comfort you can find.

She’s letting go of you, gently, but she brings a hand into her soft grasp so that the contact’s never broken. She guides you to the table, to her book, and sits back down on the stool while you hold her hand from above.

Catherina points you to a word on the page, near where you saw “beautiful” earlier. This time, the word is “holy”. She says it out loud in whatever language she speaks, and you nod in understanding.

“Proud,” she tells you, sweeping a hand over her manuscript. “Not holy.”

“Catherina,” you say.

She brushes the back of your hand with a thumb, indicating the contact between your hands that remains unbroken: “Not holy.”

“Catherina!” You give her hand a squeeze — perhaps all too sudden, as she flinches. But she has to know. “Beautiful. Bene. Holy.”

On the verge of tears, she gives you the saddest of smiles. “No.”

You bend down and hug her again, both of you holding on a little too tightly. Sister Anna might say that even _this_ touch is too intimate, but if Saradomin's got an ounce of decency in him, then surely he couldn't object. What god would forbid a comforting arm to someone as distraught as this?

Who could prohibit simple pride in your own artwork? Or simply holding someone’s hand?

“Sister Anna not holy,” you tell her.

Catherina pushes you away, suddenly and sharply — and letting go of your hand, an instant loss of warmth. "No! ??? ???'? ??????????!" she cries, gaping as if you just blasphemed her god rather than a fellow priest.

She's not looking at you now. She's standing up and fully focused on the table as she begins to gather her equipment: the pots of ink, the brushes, a few pieces of vellum. She takes a long look at the book, as if she’s considering taking that too, but clearly decides against it.

“Catherina?” you ask her, as if you don’t know exactly what she’s about to do.

All she’s taken seems to fit into one leather pouch and one small wooden box. Her only other worldly possessions are the robes she’s wearing.

“Not holy,” she says. But without looking back at you, she takes your hand, stroking it with her thumb one last time before letting go. “Bene.”

Sister Catherina goes to the door, opening it just a tiny bit: once she knows the coast is clear, she rushes out, with the sound of her sandals on the paving stones fading behind her.

You never even told her your name.

You curse quietly as you play out alternative routes in your mind. Could you have reached out to her better? Found a way to talk to her properly, made her realise the words of some pushy priest didn't and shouldn't mean anything?

Oh, what are you thinking. It's never as easy as that, and you _know_ it. Besides, if she wanted to leave this place anyway? Good for her. Maybe she can figure that stuff out on her own.

You don't know why you care. You _should_ be worrying about more important things... like having just lost your closest ally. Less temptation to act un-priestly around the others, you suppose.

While you're here, left unguarded, you may as well make the most of it. Your eye catches a utility knife, lying on top of its corresponding leather pouch. Despite its small blade, you’d certainly rather have that than bring a fist to a knife fight.

You search the room for anything else of use, but it looks like most of the temple’s decoration materials had been in use by Catherina on that table. You wonder if anyone else even uses them — maybe they’ll be missed, maybe they won’t be. Not really your concern.

Well, not unless you’re suspected of stealing it. Probably best to leave the room, to avoid being caught at the scene of the crime.

Following in Catherina’s footsteps, you make your way out the door and cross the courtyard to… nowhere in particular. You’re not sure what to do apart from awkwardly standing around. Fortunately, not long into that fruitless endeavour, a large bell rings from the tower above. Slowly, you begin to see priests filtering out of the rooms around the courtyard, all heading for one central hall.

May as well follow them. You do so… and hope that Catherina’s absence doesn’t lead to any questions you can’t answer.  
  
---  
[Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283)


	31. Kiss Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go with Catherina.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57510562)
> 
> **  
> Non-explicit sexual content.  
> **

You kiss her.

You don't know how long it's been since the last time she's done this, but you're sure there must've been a last time — she's eager, but there's definite experience there. Her shakiness is wearing off.

(You’re barely less frozen than you were before. Lord, it must be like kissing a statue.)

No, this is risky — for both of you, but likely even more so for her. You want to make _absolutely_ sure, so you break the kiss and you ask her: “Catherina?”

“Mmm?” she responds, impatient.

Even with your limited level of verbal communication, you’re able to give her a fully comprehensive summary of all the consequences she might be facing for this: “Sister Anna.”

It doesn’t discourage her. If anything, it doubles the affection she’s pouring onto you, and _wow._ You don’t know how to respond — well, your _brain_ doesn’t.

Your hand inadvertently brushes her cheek, and you feel the wetness of tears under your fingertips. Your chest tightens — why is she crying? Is it because of something you did?

You’re about to pull away and apologize for being so forward, but she instead lunges towards you, grabbing you around the waist in a tight hug as she buries her tear-streaked face in your shoulder. She clings to you like she doesn’t want to let go; like you’re an anchor, a rock in an unforgivingly shifting sea.

And suddenly you know why she’s weeping and holding you so. She doesn’t need to say it for you to understand it, because it’s a feeling you know well; trapped in a pit for days on end. Sleeping in a barracks with unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar land, with your family miles and miles away in Senntisten. This whole time in this abbey, in this strange place where you’ve been afraid to even speak. 

Loneliness. 

You hug her back, gently as you can, if only to say without words that you’re there. She lets out a sob, now and again, though it subsides with time. You simply stand and hold her, keeping her close as you dare as you feel her fluttering heartbeat begin to slow. 

You wished you’d had someone hold you like that, back in Kharid-et. At least now you can do that for someone else. 

She breaks away, eventually, and you can see her eyes are quite red, and her face is streaked with lines of salt where her tears ran. Her blotchy cheeks blush as she looks to you, and she stammers what sounds like an apology. 

You shake your head. “ _ Noli lacrima. _ ” Don’t cry. Even as you say this in vulgar Infernal, she seems to understand you, and wipes her face with the rough sleeve of her robes. When she’s through, she considers you again, her blue eyes wide, filled with deep consideration. Then she leans forward and kisses you again. 

It’s bitter with salt, but you don’t care. You pull her closer, more daringly, as she returns your embrace with a surprisingly strong grip. Her arms hook around your waist as you run your hands over her shoulders, softly tousling her flaxen hair. Strangely, in this desolate landscape, she smells of rain — as out of place as you are. 

You only break away when you feel her begin to tug at the rope around the waist of your robes. You pull away, surprised, and her eyes widen again. She says something that sounds like a question, her lips curled in worry. 

You take a deep breath. “Want?” You ask. You can understand that word, at least. 

She nods, slowly. “You?”

You nod as well, and pull her in for another kiss. This one is deeper; warmer, almost, as you feel something sleeping within you awake and loosen. 

You both seem to have come to a decision now, and your inhibitions are all but tossed out the window. She’s managed to rid you of your hempen belt, and her hands travel underneath your robe, smoothing over your sandblasted skin with palms as soft as silk. You let out a sigh, and slowly feel the curve and shape of her. She begins to hum underneath you, sweetly and happily,  and all thoughts or worries are quickly swept aside in favour of the moment.

* * *

The two of you are slumped against the wall, in your own kind of happy exhaustion.  She’s still and quiet next to you now, her heartbeat slowing once more as she clings to you. Your nose is buried in her hair, and it smells of dust and rain.

You don’t know why she’d ever want to become a priest. She’d been freer than you’d ever seen her before, moving like a skilled dancer all throughout, and collapsing with a contented sigh when you both were through. She holds you like she doesn’t want to let you go, though not as fiercely as before. Not that you mind — you don’t want her to leave. 

She shifts, pressing her face closer to your chest. You do your best not to move too much, so as not to disturb her. 

How did it come to this? You’re not entirely sure. You weren’t thinking, of course. But was that so bad? You found each other, after all. And you haven’t felt this at ease in a long, long time. 

The bell strikes the hour, making you jump slightly. You feel her stiffen next to you, and she suddenly sits up. 

You can’t see her expression, but you feel her begin to shake. She  jumps up and pulls her robe back on like she’s trying to hide herself — she even rolls the ink-stained sleeves down all the way down her arms. She grabs her paints and brushes, and turns around, scanning the room for anything she’s missed. 

Her eyes catch you,  still on the floor , frozen with shock. She bows her head, slightly, and shakes it, stammering an apology. You bolt upright, and reach out to her. 

“Wait!” You shout, Infernal be damned. But before you can say another word, she’s out the door, the soft patter of her sandalled feet echoing down the  paved courtyard… and out of the abbey.

You fall back, and pinch the bridge of your nose with a groan. 

_ Well, _ you think, squeezing your eyes shut.  _ That was a mistake. _

So much for making allies here. You probably could’ve been anyone, as far as she’s concerned. The right outsider at the right time: nothing more, nothing less.

Why do you care, anyway?

No more risks like that. You’ve got more important things to worry about — like what she’s left on her workbench, for instance. Since she’s already left with most of her equipment, you suppose stealing some of what’s left won’t come under any further suspicion… and you note the presence of a crafting knife, left in the open and ripe for the taking. There’s only a small blade on it, but in a pinch? Better than nothing.

You ensure you’re properly dressed, and tuck the knife in its leather pouch into your robes, feeling a good deal more secure for it. Time to head back out into the courtyard, now slowly filling with the sound of priests making their way from one room to the next.

You don’t think they know about Catherina’s departure yet. But they will.  
  
---  
[Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (a Chaos chapter with a few paragraph-sized sprinklings of Fenn)


	32. Go to the Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Trust Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194142).

Sir End doesn’t seem to notice as you slink towards the castle, which gleams appealingly in the sun as you approach it. Saradominist fashion sense, it seems, extends to their architecture. White and blue and white and blue… where are the columns? Where are the colourful statues? Where are the humourous arrows pointing towards the  _ Lupanar _ ? This city has no taste. 

The guards at the castle entrance don’t seem to regard you as you pass through. Then again, who knows where they could be looking when their faces are concealed by those helmets? Somehow, them  _ not _ looking at you makes you even more uncomfortable than before. 

As you head over the moat, you note the swans honking in the waterway below.  _ Even their birds are colour-coordinated… _

You pass into a courtyard, which seems to be fairly deserted, save for a few knights here and there passing through. Doing your best to look as inconspicuous as possible, you casually stroll over to a door to the inner castle. 

As you do, you hear someone shout behind you. You turn around on instinct, resisting the urge to salute as a particularly fearsome-looking knight marches towards you. 

“!!!! !!! !!! !!!!! !!!!?” He bellows. “!!! !!! ! !!!!!! !! !!!!!?”

You give him what you hope is an innocent smile, and consider how approximate to the local etymology the phrase “Looking for the bathroom” might be.

In your panicked fervor, you feel yourself back away against the door. Your hand, tucked behind you, creeps for the handle….

You whirl around as the door swings open behind you, slamming it shut with all your might, and running in blind terror in the universally-celebrated direction of As Far Away From The Thing Chasing Me As Possible.

The room you bust into seems to contain a very confused Saradominist priest, who lets out a shout as you fly past him, barreling through the next door. The first knight is now in hot pursuit, and you race towards the ladder to the front of you, scurrying up it as fast as your legs will allow. 

You climb and climb, feeling the ladder rattle as what is undoubtedly a battalion of white knights chase you upwards. Somewhere in your terror-stricken mind, you begin to craft an epic tale that you’ll recount to your siblings of how Quintus Aurelius Stoke, Zarosian  _ munifex _ , fought off six Saradominist crusaders at once, with nothing but sheer will and some grandiose improvised weapon you’ll think of later…

You reach the top of the ladder. You seem to be at the top of a tower of some sort, but you don’t take the time to admire the view. Instead, you grab the mercifully-present trapdoor and slam it shut, throwing yourself down on it and praying that your weight will be enough to hold them back.

As you catch your breath, your chest burning with the sudden exertion and sheer panic you just underwent, you hear a polite cough behind you. 

You turn around. There’s a knight standing behind you, their helmeted head managing to look pensive, despite it covering their face. They unsheathe their sword in one smooth motion, and, before you can react, brings the pommel down on your head. 

Your vision goes dark…  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59219371)


	33. Go to the Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Trust Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194142).

You follow the knight, hoping that wherever he leads you will bring you a step closer home. 

At the very least, it’s greener than the place where you came from. As you approach, you can see that it’s a garden clearly funded by some rich  _ patron. _ Colourful flowers spill from the beds, tended to by what seem to be gardening slaves, who wander around with trowels and watering cans. Marble fountains fill the place with the soft sound of burbling water, and small children play on the meticulously-trimmed lawns.

Sir End makes his way towards a park bench, upon which you can see an older knight, in smiliarly gleaming white armour, is sitting. Sir End seems to be explaining something to him; at one point, he points to you, and the old knight bobs his head amicably. 

You try to listen in on the conversation, but it’s too quiet for you to catch without it being noticeable that you’re eavesdropping. So instead, you watch one of the gardening slaves tend to a patch of unusually large begonias.

Eventually, Sir End motions for you to come over. You do so, feeling more and more self-conscious about your ragged state of dress, in juxtaposition to their shining armour, with every step you take. 

The old knight nods, his blue eyes twinkling behind his classes. “????? ???? ??? ????,” he says. “???? ?? ? ????? ????, ??? ???”

You stare at him blankly.  _ Can this old knight really help me? _ you think.  _Did this stupid kid just drag me all the way to a Saradominist fortress to talk to a_ senectus _? Really?_

Sir End turns to the knight and says something further, and you catch a few, butchered words in Infernal. The old man nods again, and points towards the castle. Sir End salutes, and heads off, casting a quick glance at you as he leaves.

The old man then locks eyes with you, and you suddenly feel intimidated. The twinkle that was there has now morphed into something more piercing, and you get the sense you’re being sized up. 

You brush the feeling off.  _ He’s just an old man, _ you think.  _ He’ll probably try and talk to me, or make some funny hand gestures while the knight is off getting someone more competent.  _

The old man pats the seat next to him. Despite the nagging feeling you feel crawling in your belly, you sit beside him, grateful for a chance to rest your legs. 

He clears his throat, and adjusts his glasses.  _ Great,  _ you think.  _ How long do I have to tolerate this old fart? _

He turns to you, still smiling, his gaze still piercing. “So,  _ faba vetus, _ ” he says. “How did you end up here? Hmm? Not every day you come across someone who speaks vulgar Infernal.”

Your eyes widen. It’s accented, but otherwise impeccable. You feel tears burn at your eyes, hearing your tongue for the first time in what feels like forever — and from a Saradominist, no less!

“So, old bean,” he continues. “Where did you come from?”

Your mind races, trying to think of some fitting lie that would pull the heartstrings of an old knight. “I- I’m a refugee,” you stammer. “I was making my way towards Lassar, and —”

“Lassar, you say?” The old knight raises an eyebrow.

“Y-yes. One of your men found upon me, and —”

“Where were you born?”

“Paddewwa.” Another lie. “On the far reaches of the empire…”

“Empire?” The old man’s eyes widen, and he lets out an amused chuckle. You’re not really sure if you get the joke. 

“Listen,” you say. “If you could just direct me towards Forthinry, I really should be able to find my way from there.”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to do that, old bean,” the knight says, with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Tell me, now. What year is it?”

“Er… the year is 2,004,” you say. Of course, this is going off when the Empire is founded, so the knight’s confused expression might be because the Saradomists use some other system. 

“In-ter-est-ing,” the knight says carefully. “Say, old chap. Would you mind staying around for a spot? I have some questions for you.”

At this, you bolt to your feet. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I can’t linger. I’ll find my own way back to Lassar, alright? It was quite nice talking to you, but I really must be going.”

“I wouldn’t say that so soon, old bean.” The knight gives you a look again, and you feel your stomach twist unpleasantly. Enough is enough. You’re getting out of here!

Just as you ready yourself to bolt for the exit, however, you feel a heavy cover drop over your head. You let out a muffled scream, and you catch the smell of something sickly-sweet and fruity being pressed to your nose. Your vision spins, and you close your eyes as the blackness overtakes you.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59219371)


	34. Search the Kitchen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Stay with Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57510811).

There are sacks all over the room, and they can't _all_ be filled with cabbages. If they were, then Elena wouldn't be leaving for more, would she?

You make your way to a hefty-looking pile of sacks at the side of the room. You pull one open, only to find... rocks. Lots of rocks. Big, heavy ones.

Does Elena have a collection? Or is the priests' diet even more austere than you you thought?

With difficulty, you shove that one aside to expose another, and your investigation there leads you to... more rocks. Sandstone, specifically, matching the kind the bricks of the temple walls.

You think you even see the same whitewash on the sides of some of them.

There's no stopping you now; your curiosity has been irreversibly piqued. Moving more inevitably rock-filled sacks to either side of you, you're in the middle of concocting some bizarre theory in your head (feeding the temple walls to the priests to make up for food shortages?) when a discovery brings you to a far more plausible explanation.

You didn't spend _that_ long in Kharid-et prison, but you still know an escape tunnel when you see one. You can't help staring at it, your mind connecting some rather worrying dots. One thing's for sure: no one digs a tunnel like this from a place that they can freely leave.

Have you just gone from one prison to another?

If so, then this is something you'd better hide -- for Elena's sake as well as yours. You start dragging each sack back into place, trying to leave them the way you'd found them. Best if not even Elena knows that you know. You might be able to get in on her plans later on, but for the time being, you'd rather she not think that you've jeopardised them.

The door swings open behind you, and you freeze. At a glance, there's no sign of the tunnel... but if whoever this is looks closely enough...

"???? ??? ??? ??????"

It's Abbess Benita. When you fail to answer her, she approaches you and -- oh, of _course_ \-- takes a good, long look at what you're doing. She bends down to shift one sack aside herself, and though it takes some doing (you're far from the strongest, but you're a lot younger than she is), she succeeds in revealing exactly what you've been trying to hide.

There's no anger, surprisingly. Nothing directed at you at all. Just a long, weary sigh.

She replaces the sack, then directs you to do the same with the others. She exits the room, closing the door behind her, leaving you alone.

* * *

Sister Elena hasn't returned.

You're fairly sure that's her voice you heard in the adjacent room, talking to Abbess Benita. The discussion was lengthy, and while no voices were raised, you could swear you heard somebody sobbing. Perhaps both of them. Then one of them left, and... that's the last you heard of Elena.

Regardless, you're never one to turn down a good opportunity for looting. It's been a while since she left, and in that time, you've found various other sacks of _actual food_ \-- all vegetables, of course, but that certainly hasn't stopped you from filling your belly as quickly as possible. You suppose it can't hurt to grab one of those knives while you're here; wherever Elena's gone, you don't think she cares much about the temple's utensils any more.

You take one with a decent point to it, one that might be able to stab as well as slice. It's not the longest blade, but as you size the thing up in your hand, you reckon it could still reach some pretty vital areas. You stash it away in your robes, shielding it from your skin with a bit of hacked-off sackcloth.

A loud bell begins ringing from the tower nearby. Soon, there's a bustle of noise coming from the courtyard. You may as well join it.  
  
---  
[Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283)


	35. Don't push your Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Stay with Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57510811).

You're not about to get kicked out for stealing. Better to be discreet.

You resume your position back at the dirty oven, ready to start scrubbing away once more whenever someone comes in.

The first time the door opens, it's Abbess Benita. You scrub dutifully regardless, sure to show what a good and useful contributor to temple life you are.

She smiles at you, a little awkward. "Elena?" she asks.

You shrug, then gesture to the doorway that Benita's still standing in. She nods in thanks, then leaves.

Elena herself comes in not long later, hauling two hefty sacks with her. She heaves the two of them onto her worktop, lays some out in front of her... and then takes her head into her hands, sluggishly resting her elbows on the chopping board. She's clawing at her hair as if she's tempted to rip it all out.

Elena drags her hands down her face, rubbing at her eyes with her palms... and then peeks out to give you a withering glare. _What are you looking at?_ She stands up stiff and straight again, and immediately gets down to work instead, furrowing her brow with a determined intensity as she peels some mystery vegetable.

Wow. You suppose she'll be expecting you to work that hard too, huh.

You get right back to scrubbing, but now you've got background music: Elena is grumbling to herself as she works, probably feeling safe in the assumption that she knows you can't understand.

"???? ? ????," she grouses. "????? suspicion ??? ????? ?????? ????? ? ??? ?? ??, ???'? ?? ?? ?????? ??? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? questioned."

It's not _much_ that you're able to catch, but it's more than enough to have you curious about exactly what Abbess Benita wanted with her.

"? ?????? ?????? ????? ???? ?????," she rambles into thin air. "??? ??? ???? ???????, ???? ??? ??? ??? ? ????? ???????? ????. ?? ???? ???????, ?? ???? ???????, ??? ????????? ?? ???? ?????? ????????!" Elena punctuates this one with a particularly violent chop, with the poor vegetable chunk falling helplessly in the wake of her frustration.

You've lost her again, but that won't stop your imagination filling the blanks. You picture it: Benita conducting an interrogation, grilling Elena as she stubbornly refuses to talk about... whatever it is she's under suspicion for. Would it be Benita doing the questioning, though? No, she'd just be the hapless Tribune at the side taking notes, as Praetorian Anna torments Elena into talking.

It's a mercy when the sound of a large bell echoes from the tower above. Elena sighs with relief, puts down her knife and closes up the sack for the time being. She heads for the door, and you imagine you should be doing the same.

You do, but not without one last longing glance at her knives. She'll be back for them, of course. What a shame.  
  
---  
[Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283)


	36. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go With Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834775).

When you wake up, he has his arms wrapped around you.

You freeze. The sensation isn’t unfamiliar, but it’s certainly unexpected. Even as the events of the previous night flood into your brain, you still can’t believe it’s real. 

Ozan lets out a soft snore. His arms trap you, and you’re not sure how you can extricate yourself. _If_ you want to extricate yourself. 

It’s still dark — damn your military schedule — though it’s growing ever lighter. Ozan still doesn’t stir, so you simply relent to laying there, feeling his breath rise and fall in his chest as he holds you. 

When the sun is fully up he wakens, pulling himself up and stretching his arms like a cat. When he turns around , his eyes catch yours, and he smiles. As he does, you feel a flicker deep in your chest.

Breakfast is some kind of flatbread, dry and grainy between your teeth. It’s fairly manageable with a few swigs from the waterskin, and, for how little you’ve eaten over the past twenty-four hours, is practically a king’s feast. 

That is, until Ozan pulls out a small clay jar. He uncrews the lid, and spills out a few small dried fruits, offering one to you. You know what it is before you even take it — the wonderful, sticky sweet smell hitting your nose like a symphony.

_Figs._ How did he know? You take a tiny bite of the dried fruit, and flavor explodes in your mouth. It’s not palathai, but, Lord, it’s wonderful. Back in Senntisten, you would’ve scoffed at such a simple offering if it were on the table. But now, it’s the most delicious thing in the world. 

You realize that Ozan is giving you a bit of an odd look. You blush, quickly biting down the rest of the fig and avoiding his gaze, even as the taste on your tongue almost makes you want to cry. 

However, without warning, he takes your hand, and the burn in your cheeks fades away. _It’s ok,_ his expression says, more clearly than whatever broken Infernal could convey. 

* * *

The rest of the trip is fairly quiet, both from the language barrier, and from the scorching heat that hits you both. Your fear that if you open your mouth, the dryness will suck every drop of moisture from you. Even your sweat spends little time on your skin, quickly evaporating in the burning air.

Ozan seems to be worried about you. The sun doesn’t seem to bother him too much, but he stops whenever you show the smallest bit of exhaustion, and insists on walking in such a way that blocks some of the sun from you. You gratefully consent to these ministrations, too hot and too miserable to disagree. 

And, honestly, the worry in his eyes is rather charming.

You walk on for what seems like forever, as the sun arches overhead. When it hits the late afternoon you can see it; the distant, blocky outline of a settlement. It wavers in the desert heat, and you think it may be a mirage, but as you get closer, it becomes more and more solid.

By the time you reach it, the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows between the low sandstone buildings. This place is a good deal smaller than the city you came from. (Kharid, was it called? Why would it be called that? And why does that fill you with unease?) Yet the sight of civilization after so many miles of desert is relieving as anything.

Ozan leads you over to a fountain in the middle of the square, letting out a cry of surprise as he sees it burbling with water.

“Ah! Was dry before,” he says, cupping his hands into the basin and splashing himself. “Now fixed.”

You follow suit, grateful for the cool water on your hot body. You resist the urge to take off your shirt. This is a public square, after all, even if there’s a chance that Ozan will follow suit. 

After a few minutes spent cooling yourselves, Ozan holds up a finger. 

“You,” he says. “Wait here. Be back. Soon. Bring friend.”

You nod, leaning against the fountain’s cool stone and letting your legs rest. The little town is quiet; there are a few people lingering about, occasionally coming by the fountain to fill a bucket or clay pot. One man stands by a cart that, oddly, seems to be coated in frost, handing out squares of something that glitters in the dying sun like silver. Whatever it is, it seems to be edible, for those who take them peel back the silvery wrapping and bite down.

Your mouth waters. You hope Ozan will be back soon, and that his friend might have dinner prepared for you both…

As you watch the man, you notice something odd flash behind the cart. You squint, trying to catch sight of it. 

There it is again. It’s black and white, it seems; some sort of animal, hobbling about like its feet are restrained. It seems to be a... bird, maybe? It has a beak, and odd, stubby wings, but no feathers you can see. It could be a duck, but its neck is far too short. 

As you watch, you see it waddle around the cart, just out of sight of the seller. It looks back and forth, and, with a little hop, grabs one of the rectangles resting on the top of the cart. Then, quick as a flash, it waddles back off towards the desert.

You sat back bewilderingly, a little indignant that a bird is a better thief than you. Curiosity creeps into your thoughts. What _was_ that thing, anyways? You didn’t see anything like it in the desert. And it was holding that rectangle in its wing like it had hands — not using its beak, as you’ve seen other birds do.

With a waddle like that, it couldn’t have gotten far. Maybe if you chase after it, you’ll find something interesting.

Then again, you should probably wait for Ozan…

What do you do?  
  
---  
Follow Bird (coming soon)  
[Wait for Ozan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544082)  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wanting to follow the bird: That chapter will come.... later.


	37. Follow the Priests [continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283).

You see Catherina in the crowd, and you make just a moment's worth of eye contact. She's enjoying this, and she lights up on seeing that you are too.

Could you make your way over to her without attracting attention? Don't want to draw too much suspicion, after all...

... no, probably not.

The priest leading the choir, with a flourish of her hand, cuts the singers to silence all at once. Polite applause follows, which you join with no hesitation.

Abbess Benita then strides to the front of the crowd, making some announcement to the gathered priests. You're naturally clueless about the subject matter at first, but once you hear the name "Elena"... it all makes sense.

Despite the temple's formality, there's murmurs around the crowd. No surprise: it seemed like she'd been there for years. Maybe some people had fond memories of her. At the very least, her cabbage soup would be missed.

Behind the Abbess, you notice Sister Anna's face begin to contort. She stays silent.

There's a lot more chatter as Benita finishes and the priests begin to disperse. You won't be going with them, though: the Abbess heads directly for you. There's no malice in your expression, so _presumably_ you're not in trouble. Instead, she beckons you to come with her.

Through a door, into the dining room, and down the stairs to the kitchen: it's just as you left it, the knives (and chopped cabbage) untouched. Benita gestures towards it, then gives you a querying look.

Oh. Of course. There's a job opening.

You nod in acceptance on the spot, just to keep up appearances; the Abbess seems satisfied, smiles in thanks, and leaves you to it. That gives you time to contemplate what you _actually_ want to do. It's presumably a long-term role, which could well get you far more entrenched in this place than you really want to be, but on the other hand... free food and free shelter for the foreseeable future. Or for as long as you can tolerate this place. (You still don't know if you can willingly leave.)

If you want to leave, you realise, there's no better time than now. There's plenty of food for the taking, a surplus of sacks to bring them in, and an escape tunnel to let you leave the place discreetly. For all you know, this could be your last chance.  
  
---  
[Stay Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59217643)  
[Make your Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888728)


	38. Try to Kill a Goblin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go Left](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873081).

You hold the sword with confidence, headed over the bridge with your chest puffed in pride.

You’re Quintus Aurelius Stoke! You’re a munifex in Zaro's own army; whatever Bandosian scum that may come your way will quickly fall in wake of your military discipline and prowess.

You select a particularly fearsome-looking goblin near the river, who’s busy poking his spear at some trout. You plant yourself behind him, brandishing your newfound weapon.

“Face me, beast!” you shout. “Behold the power of the Empire!”

The goblin turns around, a little bewilderingly. You slash your sword as him with a cry, aiming for his foul green neck. One swipe, and his head will surely be sent flying…

The goblin blocks the attack easily with its spear, grunting slightly as it does so. The rebound throws you off-balance, and you land on the muddy riverbanks with a squelch.

The goblin grunts, an ugly, yellow-toothed grin spreading across its warty face. It raises its spear, still wet from the river, and you notice that its bronze end looks rather sharp.

You gulp. Perhaps you could have been a little more diplomatic? But the look it’s giving you indicates that the time for bargaining has since passed. Maybe you should have trained for a bit…

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	39. Follow the Priests (cont.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283).

You see Elena, too. She's one of the few people not looking at the singers. Her eyes are cast downwards, the creases in her face seeming heavier in the golden light.

Against your will, you're wondering what Catherina must have thought of this. There's that guilt flaring up again: despite the hardships she was facing here, it's apparent that there's a lot of beauty too.

Did she really think it through? Did she really _want_ to leave?

You may well never know.

The priest leading the choir, with a flourish of her hand, cuts the singers to silence all at once. Polite applause follows, which you join with no hesitation.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218435)


	40. Leave Goblin Mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Attack Chicken (2)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872973).

Why would you try and equip goblin mail? It looks far too small, and it probably has fleas or something.

You throw the armour down in disgust, and decide to venture up the path.  
  
---  
[Continue North ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218966)


	41. Follow the Priests (continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow the Priests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872283).

You see Catherina in the crowd, and you make just a moment's worth of eye contact. She's enjoying this, and she lights up to see that you are too.

Could you make your way over to her without attracting attention? Don't want to draw too much suspicion, after all...

... no, probably not.

You see Elena, too. She's one of the few people not looking at the singers. Her eyes are cast downwards, the creases in her face seeming heavier in the golden light.

The priest leading the choir, with a flourish of her hand, cuts the singers to silence all at once. Polite applause follows, which you join with no hesitation.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218435)


	42. Equip Goblin Mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Attack Chicken (2)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872973).

You attempt to equip the goblin mail.

It’s too small. Clearly made for goblins. Not for humans.

You feel a little foolish.

With a sigh, you drop the armour on the ground, and decide to venture up the path.  
  
---  
[Continue North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218966)


	43. Attack Chicken (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Attack Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872898).

You attack another chicken. After a few stabs, it falls over dead.

After several more bird murders in this fashion, several fireworks go off over your head. You are now, apparently, Attack Level 5.

You have no idea what this means.

* * *

Newly instructed in the ways of combat by the humble task of slaughtering innocent chickens, you exit the farm feeling better prepared to take on the horrors of this strange new world. As you look to the south, you notice the goblins milling about in the ruined buildings by the bridge. With your mettle, you could probably take one of them on…

You head over to a goblin that’s wandered onto the road, far from its companions. Even from this distance, it’s unbelievably fierce. Its green face is drawn into a scowl, and the bronze spear it’s wielding has, no doubt, run through countless hapless warriors so brave and foolhardy to take on such a fearsome beast…

You mutter a quick prayer to Zaros, and, hoping that your military training and newfound strength will be enough to vanquish this beast, charge forward...

Aaaaaaand it’s dead. The goblin lets out a grunt as your sword runs him through, and falls to the ground, its body limp. Huh. You look at your sword. Killing chickens, it seems, is a surprisingly viable way to train. The goblin seems to have some armour on it. Perhaps you can use it to better protect yourself against the paths ahead?  
  
---  
[Equip Goblin Mail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872994)  
[Leave Goblin Mail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873015)


	44. Examine Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Train on Chickens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872841) or [Attack Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872898).

Yep. It’s definitely a chicken.

You are unsure of the point of this exercise.  
  
---  
[Attack Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872898)  
[Examine Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872916)


	45. Attack Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Train on Chickens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872841).

You attack the chicken. After a few stabs, the chicken falls dead.

Attack another chicken?  
  
---  
[Attack Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872973)  
[Examine Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872916)


	46. Follow the Priests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Kiss Her](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194688), [Don't Kiss Her](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58195588), [Search the Kitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873348) or [Don't push your Luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873366).

You follow the crowd, making your way up one of the staircases flanking the courtyard. The priests of the temple are gathering in one large hall, where the ceiling stretches the full height of two storeys. A row of metal pipes forms a tall arch on the opposite wall, shining fiercely in the bright desert morning. You look to the ceiling: a glass dome focuses and intensifies the sunlight, so that all within is lit up in its golden glow. No wonder they believe their Lord of Light is watching over them.

A few of the priests are chatting among themselves, while others remain tight-lipped, but all know to take their place on one side of the room or the other. While some are gathering in a crowd on the right, a small group are heading to the other side: these women are beginning to form two standing rows, one raised above the other on a sturdy wooden bench.

There seems to be a third "group", so to speak, consisting of one person standing in between. She faces the priests in rows, scanning along each of them with an analytical gaze. You're not quite sure what your place is in all this, and she's probably the best person to "ask".

You pose her your "question", sidling up to her and giving her a nudge. Startled, she snaps her head round to you, eyes wide open in their broken focus. She hurriedly tells you something, and the frantic motions of her head tell you it's best to stand over _there,_ along with the ones crowding around rather than lining up.

Yeah. That makes sense. You go and do that.

Once everyone is in their proper place, the woman in the middle proclaims something to the priests in their rows. She raises one pointed finger above her, and--

_Wow._

You've never heard anything like this. There's a sound that must be coming from the women, but seems so omnipresent in the room that you can hardly tell -- it resonates in you, in each of you. The music is several different tunes at once, combining to something far greater, and yet still only the product of the mere dozen people singing before you.

Perhaps the missionaries should have led with _this._

There are words to their song -- "Saradomin" is about the only one you catch -- but they don't seem to be the focus here. What a relief that is. No, the sheer sound of this is what makes it so incredible, and you're utterly lost in it.

Once you're over the initial astonishment, you start to take in some details of the scene around you. Sister Anna is in the choir, you notice, singing with as much force as everything else you've seen her do. In the mix of everyone's voices, hers stands out the most: she puts passion into every word of it. Though the words remain meaningless, you can feel the holy fighting spirit.

You're relieved to have met her in a temple rather than on the battlefield.

Abbess Benita is standing in the crowd, on an even plane with every other priest here. With a studious, benevolent eye, she watches the woman leading the choir, whose hands move them through the highs and lows.

_[How did you reach this point?]_

Stayed with Elena  
Went with Catherina

Searched the kitchen  
Didn't search the kitchen

_[go back]_  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873039)  
  
_[back]_  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873105)  
  
_[go back]_  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872991)  
  
_[go back]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [path selector adapted from La_Temperanza's guide [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514573)]


	47. Train on Chickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go Left](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873081).

You wince at the prospect of reducing yourself to training your skills on poultry. However, poultry is preferable to being eaten alive, which is what’s in store for you if you try to take on a goblin.

So, sword in hand, you make your way over the river to kill some chickens. The goblins, interestingly enough, ignore you as you sprint past them. Perhaps they don’t consider you a worthy snack? Your current state of dress and several weeks of prison diet probably doesn’t make you look particularly appetising.

When you arrive, there’s only one other person; a bearded man in what looks to be crude rune armour, chasing chickens with a sword. When he sees you, he turns red, and quickly rushes out of the gate without a word. _Hmm_ , you think. _I wonder what his deal is?_

Ah, well. At least it means you’ll have the lot to yourself.  
  
---  
[Attack Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872898)  
[Examine Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872916)


	48. Continue (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to the Castle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194478) or [Go to the Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58194409).

Your eyes flicker open.

Your head is a tight vice of pain, accentuated by the ringing in your ears. Even your eyes throb, blurring your vision with every heartbeat.

It’s dar — no, it’s light. Some light, anyways, that flashes by you in a smooth under hanging arc, reaching its apex to the left and then swinging back again.

You watch the light, entranced, for several moments before coming to your senses. _Free. I need to get free._

You try to move your arms, but you can’t. They’re bound by something to whatever you’re sitting in. Your legs and torso are similarly restrained — even your head is held in place by a band around your forehead.

The light continues swinging, seemingly never losing its momentum. Even when you close your eyes, it’s still there, never changing in its path. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark…. Tiredness begins to overtake you, and your mind becomes foggier with every swing. Light… Dark... Light… Dark… Light...

“Are you awake?”

You would jolt out of your seat if you could, as you hear a female voice ask you this in clear Infernal. You freeze — what else can you do? — and scan the room for the person who said this. However, you can see nothing beyond the infinitely swinging lamp.

“Are you awake?” the voice says.

You try to nod, forgetting about your restraints, and instead say,

“Yes.”

“Good,” the voice says. Somehow it’s… soothing? Calming. Lulling you to sleep, somehow. Your body begins to relax again, you head once again becoming more clouded as the pain fades…

“What is your name?”

“Quintus,” you say, sleepily. “My name is Quintus Aurelius Stoke…”

Something is bothering you in the back of your head, like a troublesome itch. Why are you giving her your full name? Why are you speaking in Infernal to these people?  
You brush away such thoughts, as you would a troublesome fly. Answering this nice woman’s questions makes the headache disappear. And the light… it’s so pretty to look at…

“Quintus,” she says, and you let out a happy sigh. “Where are you from?”

“Senntisten,” your murmur. “The crown jewel of the Empire. I was born on Via Cassia…”

“When were you born, Quintus?”

“The fourteenth of Octovia. One thousand, nine hundred and eighty-three.”

You hear the voice whisper something you can’t hear, before speaking to you again.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen…”

More whispers. And then:

“How did you come here, Quintus?”

You hesitate. That itchy little thought is back again, and it’s much louder now. Perhaps you should listen to it…

“Quintus,” the voice said, still soothing, but with a touch of seriousness. “You can tell me. We won’t hurt you. It’s going to be ok. We will help you.”

Her voice is hypnotic, and the swinging light only adding to the effect. You can tell her. You are safe. Everything is going to be alright…

You take a breath. “It all started when I took the commander’s palathai…”

* * *

You finished telling your story, your mouth dry from how much you spoke. A gloved hand suddenly descends in front of your face, pressing glass to your lips. You taste water, and gulp it down greedily, only stopping when the hand takes it away again.

“Very good, Quintus,” the voice says, and the lovely hot fog comes and fills your head once more. “Very good.”

Perhaps the water has cleared your head a touch, for a thought occurs to you.

“Are…” you start. For some reason, it’s harder to form words now. “Are you going to let me go soon?”

The voice doesn’t answer at first. And then it says:

“Don’t worry about that for now, Quintus. Rest now. Everything’s going to be fine…”

Indeed, your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier. The light continues swinging, even and dreamy as a lullaby. Light. Dark. Light. Perhaps you should rest.

Light… Dark… Light… Dark…

_Dark…_  
  
---  
[Wake Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59909644/)


	49. Continue North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Equip Goblin Mail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872994) or [Leave Goblin Mail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873015).

You head in a northward direction, along the winding path worn down by countless feet going the same way as you. You pass by countless fields of wheat, potatoes, and cabbage; and you encounter no one, save for a particularly pushy leaflet distributor who keeps trying to give you a pamphlet for ‘Savings on kebabs.’

Whatever that is.

As you turn the path near yet another cabbage farm, you catch sight of a high grey wall on the horizon. Your eyes catch roofs peeking over the stronghold, and your heart skips a beat. 

Civilisation! One that isn’t a dinky little town infested by goblins, it seems. You walk faster towards it. You can probably get a map there, and with a city of this size, someone will likely know Infernal… 

You hear something like the rush of air coming from your right. You turn, and dive out the way with a yelp as a powerful blast of wind whistles by you. 

You look at the sky. It seems clear. Why there would be a sudden storm is beyond you…

The ground next to you suddenly explodes as a ball of water strikes it, showering you with hot mud. You jump to your feet with a curse, scanning the area for the source. Unless the weather here is truly malevolent, then that probably came from somewhere else.

There! A man in dark robes, standing in the middle of a dark circle, seems to be preparing some kind of foul magic in his hands. You grip your sword. 

The mage blasts another spell at you, but you duck. 

“Ha!” You shout. _Stupid wizard! I’ll show these heathens the meaning of a well-trained warrior…_

Strange. Why do you feel so warm? And why does it smell like the time one of the recruits trapped a swamp-rat in a hot clibanus?

You touch the top of your head. Ah. There’s the reason. It seems that your hair is on fire.

You get the feeling you might be out of your league.

With an almighty scream you race towards the wall, uttering curses along the way. Blessedly, there seems to be a water-barrel just inside, which you race towards and duck your head in. 

A moment later you resurface, dripping and smelling vaguely of ditchwater, to the roaring laughter of the guards at the entrance.

You shoot them all a dirty look and point to the stone circle, teeming with dark mages mere feet away. How could they be defending a city with these pagan heathens just outside? You think hotly.

The guards, however, merely shrug, and return to what they were doing before, i.e. milling about aimlessly.

Seething, and still drenched, you turn away and head into the city, resisting the urge to make a rude gesture. You tuck your sword into your belt as you do so — best not make a scene any further than you already have.

This place is considerably less camel-smelling than the previous settlement, though the overall odour isn’t much of an improvement. The stench of smoke, sewage, rotten cabbage, old beer and unmentionable bodily fluids rolls over you in a single, horrid wave, and you suppress the urge to gag.

As you do your best not to add vomit to the disgusting mix, you suddenly feel your belt become suspiciously lighter. You look up, only to see a dark-haired figure racing down an alleyway with your sword in hand. 

“Hey!” you scream, taking off after the thief. You turn the corner, only to see them scramble up a wall faster than you can blink. The thief — who, of all things, is a scrawny little girl — blows a raspberry at you, before disappearing over the rooftops.

You utter a string of curses so foul that they’d put the graffiti in garrison bathrooms to shame, before turning around to exit the stinking lane.

Your way, however, is blocked, by a similarly stinking small dog. It smells like something that crawled out of the gutter, and its patchy brown (well, you think it’s brown) fur is no doubt crawling with fleas. Its eyes are gungy, though bright.

It looks to you imploringly, its tail wagging gently despite its miserable state. 

What a funny creature, you think. You’re in a worse situation than I am, yet you seem all the happier for it.

Your heart feels a pang. It’s been a lonely journey so far, and flea-infested company is better than no company at all.

Then again, you have no idea what diseases this thing might be riddled with. Foaming at the mouth is not something you want to end up doing tonight.

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Pet Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544538)  
[Shoo away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544406)


	50. Stay Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow the Priests [continued]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873105).

You decide you may as well roll with it. For the time being, at least.

Sure. You can be a chef. How hard can it be?

Elena's discarded cabbage chunks beckon leafily from the worktop. They're calling on you to fulfil their destiny — but _what?_ What was to become of them?

Oh, of course: the large pot in the corner! No home more perfect than that. It's completely empty so far, but that's about to change: you lug the pot over (taking several minutes to do so — the thing's _heavy_ ) and scrape the pre-chopped cabbagebits into their new home.

Not as crispy as they were when Elena cut them, but you reckon they'll probably do.

You're gonna try adding some more to this. Cabbage soup? Ha! Try cabbage and... whatever these brown, lumpy vegetables might be. You chuck a few of them in. No need to chop: people have teeth for a reason, and you'll be damned if you let people neglect them!

There's also a sack full of red vegetables, round and squat, each of them with an oddly waxy skin. Toss five or six of those in there, Quint, why not? While they do have rough green stems on top, you figure those will probably soften in the same way as the cabbage.

Five round reds in the pot, and you keep one as a snack. You take a nice, hefty bite directly into the skin: there's a thick, tender outer wall, with dribbly liquid and tiny seeds within. Juicy!

There, three varieties of vegetable in the pot. Now to cook them! You spend another five agonising minutes pulling and pushing and kicking (and stubbing your toe) the pot over to the oven that you did such a great(?) job of cleaning earlier: now it sits squarely in front of the oven, specifically the hatch filled with logs and kindling.

Is there a flint around here? You search the shelves and — yes! — find a convenient tinderbox. You try making a spark to light up that kindling, and...

Harder than it looks, huh.

Ten tries, no luck.

The most you're achieving is getting your arms tired out.

There! A spark — no, it's gone.

After about a hundred tries, you finally manage to get a spark going, and WOW, what's _in_ this stuff? The fire spreads through the kindling like... like wildfire, and you have to jump back to avoid getting hurt. (The floor gives your tailbone a nasty clobbering in the process, _and_ you still manage to singe a finger, but you're still in one piece! More or less.)

There. The fire is blazing just nicely, radiating heat onto the side of the cooking pot. Fire plus desert heat is a bit too hot to handle, so for the time being, you'll make brief use of the escape tunnel for a nice bit of fresh air. 

(You drag through a sack of orange vegetables with you. Long and crunchy, perfect for a snack.)

About ten snacks in, well-rested, you reckon you've probably waited long enough. You crawl back in under the walls to check out your handiwork...

Huh.

You thought cooking pots were supposed to, y'know, _cook_ things? This one must be faulty, because it's left one whole side of your vegetable mixture untouched, while those on the side near the fire are burning and blackening together.

Maybe you have to turn it. You try getting a good grip on the pot, and find out the hard way that the metal is scorching hot. Second burn of the day!

Inspecting the contents of the pot, you reflect disheartenedly on how _solid_ everything still seems. Isn't this meant to be melting down now? Where's all the liquid? Everything in your "soup" is depressingly dry... apart from the red round ones, some of which have partially burst, spilling their innards all over.

Hmm. You figured that the soup would just sort of _happen_ on its own, but maybe it could do with more of those round red things, since they're the only ones behaving in any sort of soup-adjacent fashion. Maybe they were Elena's secret ingredient — the key to her soup tasting so good!

You empty an entire sack of round red veg into the thing. There. Now it'll have no excuse for not working.

You watch in blissful satisfaction as the scarlet skins of the things begin to crisp, exposing some of the moistness beneath, sometimes even letting out dribbles of sweet, sweet juice. You figure it can't hurt to help the process — you grab one of the kitchen knives and start making slashes into the mass of red. Most of your attacks miss the mark, but every so often you carve _just_ right into the flesh of the things, with a good trickle of their blood as a reward.

You notice that the heat is limited to one side again — damned Saradominist cooking pots, can't they get decent equipment? This time, though, you won't attempt to turn the thing without being good and prepared. You whip off your robe shirt, instantly grateful for the shirtlessness in this heat, and you use its cloth to shield your hands as you force this thing to turn. It's a tough process, and the three little feet of the thing fight you at every step, but you manage in the end to get the uncooked side facing the fire. Or close enough.

Progress! You can practically _feel_ yourself gaining experience.

You use the shirt to mop at your sweat, and resolve to at least keep a closer eye on it this time. It's actually quite nice to watch the red vegetables melt on down, and it makes for a smell unlike anything you've ever smelt.

The door opens! On reflex, you clutch your robe to your chest to hide as much skin as you can. Catherina gasps on seeing you, but you're at least thankful that it's her — you don't want to think about the reaction Sister Anna might have had.

Catherina quietly closes the door and creeps on in, oddly secretive for someone who should ideally have free rein of this place. She looks up and down at your naked upper body at first, much to your embarassment, but doesn't seem to pass judgement on it one way or the other. What she notices next is the escape tunnel, which you've foolishly left uncovered...

"Elena," you explain, immediately remembering you're meant to be mute. Catherina's eyebrows shoot up to the damn ceiling.

"Ssh," you tell her, hoping that conveys the sentiment of _don't-tell-the-others-I-can-talk_ well enough. She nods, so you assume the intended message got through.

Catherina gets to work on covering the tunnel up again, hefting the sacks of rocks right back into place. She does it with a lot less wheezing than you managed. Her job done, she now turns to your cooking pot, filled with a masterpiece in the making...

She peers right over the rim of the thing, into the bubbling red depths within.

"Hmm."  
  
---  
[Salvage "Soup"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62543794)


	51. Continue (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow the Priests (continued)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58872991) or [Follow the Priests (cont.)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/588730392).
> 
> **Archive warnings for Major Character Death and Graphic Depictions of Violence apply strongly from this point onward.**

For most of the day that follows, you pretty much do as you're told. You find yourself assisting with lunch, then dinner, and you turn out mostly unhelpful for both of them. When each bell tolls, you go along with the flow of priests to whatever the majority are doing now -- which, usually, turns out to be yet another sermon. You figure that sitting through hours of services, kneeling on itchy cushions, and listening to prayers you half-understand (at best) is the price you have to pay for free food and shelter.

It's not the priciest meal ticket you've ever had, and you take small comfort in that. Definitely less misery than military training, and far less rough on your body. You'll take kneeling over that, any day.

Between your various obligations, you've been peeking into some of the books around the temple -- a little reconaissance can never hurt. Most are fairly dry and theological, from what little of them you can parse; you shouldn't have been expecting much else from Saradominists.

One thing you do glean, though, is the unusual prominence of Zamorak. You're surprised at how often his name's been showing up. Strategically, you'd think they'd be in favour of the rebellion, given how grimly effective it was at bringing down Senntisten. You hear they've been chewing up further territory like a gluttonous duke, so maybe that's got them worried.

More worried than Zaros, though? You haven't seen his name _once._ They must be calling him by some other name, out of fear.

Must be.

You're nose-deep in boring yourself with another meditation on the blah blah holy blah blah of Saradomin when the bell rings, sending the people of the temple into motion once more. It's past sunset; you've been wondering how long these various services are going to go on. People seem to be gathering in the main hall once again, though, rather than some secluded prayer chamber. Hopefully, that's a good sign. It feels like a setup to a conclusion, and you're more than happy to conclude this for now.

(For what? To go to sleep, wake up, and then drag yourself through another day of this? This place may be safe, but how much more can you gain from staying here?)

Like last time, the priests are starting to organise themselves: you place yourself anong the crowd again, looking out at the choir as it forms on the benches.

Something isn't right. The singers notice it earlier than you do, but you've been here long enough to notice it all the same. There's a prominent gap in the lower row, and though you don't recognise anyone there, you can certainly recognise the person who _isn't._

You spot Abbess Benita in a tense conversation with the leader of the choir: the conductor's definitely flustered, and Benita's on the verge of it herself, but for the moment she's keeping it under control. She makes a declaration to the crowd, probably some attempt to calm everyone down, and then makes decisive strides out of the room -- closing the door behind her.

Now there's nothing to hold back the tide of rampant speculation. Almost everyone is chattering away to some extent, though you catch sight of Sister Elena as an exception: her lips are pursed shut, and her wary eyes dart between every little cluster of conversation.

You barely know any of the people here, but you're willing to bet that they all know Sister Anna -- well enough to be sure that her absence is cause for alarm.

It's not long before Benita hurries back into the hall, significantly less composed than before. She rushes to _you, specifically;_ your heart pumps faster on instinct. The sleeve of your robe is suddenly grasped in her hand, tugged away as she heads right back for the door, and you have no choice but to follow -- dragged through the crowd of confused and distressed priests.

Benita slams the grand door behind her. She grabs your shoulders and stares into your eyes, shaking, panting from exertion, every part of her body painfully taut. Still maintaining that intense eye contact, she removes one hand from your shoulder to put a quivering finger to her lips and press it there tightly.

Since you're still "mute", as far as she's concerned, the instruction isn't exactly necessary... but with the fingertips of her other hand digging painfully into your shoulder, now is not the time to question it.

She lets go, and scurries onward around the corner. You join her, and see several small rooms. The door to one is open; you both enter, and...

It's an immediate shock to the senses. You recoil. There's a stench of death in the air, all too familiar from memories you'd love to forget. A corpse lies on the narrow bed, feet slashed, stomach cut through with three stab wounds, and a bleeding pulp of a face mutilated beyond recognition. The black hair matted with blood is all that reveals the victim as Sister Anna.

You scramble for a hold on the door to stop yourself from collapsing; by sheer luck, you grasp the doorknob, and practically hang your full bodyweight from it in order to keep yourself standing. Benita grabs you from under your arms, heaving you as upright as she can manage with her own trembling strength.

However many seconds pass, it still feels like too soon when she lets you go and leaves you to stand alone. You understand her panic now, and you _feel_ it.

Stepping over the shards of broken glass on the floor, Benita begins to wrap the body in the bedsheets it's lying on. They're too thin, though, and the blood soaks through them easily -- the single layer of fabric is nowhere near enough to stop the slow, steady dripping.

Benita motions to you to take over from her: you grab hold of the edges of the sheets, keeping them in place around the corpse, while she hurries around to the footlocker. She opens it up to retrieve a bundle of robes. Going around to the head, one shaking hand reaches and lifts under the back of her skull, fingers entwined in clotted hair; she puts a robe skirt underneath, wrapping it around the head as a rag to soak up the blood. She does the same for the feet, and now...

She ushers you over to the covered head, and gestures upwards with one hand while hooking another under the corpse's heels.

Time to lift. Time to get her out of here.

It's no easy task lifting a body, especially in the state you're in, and _especially_ not down a flight of stairs. But you manage it somehow, despite dreading every footstep. You carry her into the room where you slept on your very first night at the temple, placing her down to rest on the very same bed.

Your muscles ache. Your face is wet with tears that you didn't even realise you'd cried. With the rough-textured sleeve of your robe, you wipe them firmly away.

On that cue, Abbess Benita looks over your robes and hers; she nods, satisfied with what she sees. There's nothing on either you that hints at what you've just done. That gives her leave to kneel down by her fellow priest's side, to pray fervently for... whatever form of soul Saradominists might believe in.

For the brief time you knew Sister Anna, you saw very little to endear her to you. But having seen the state her body was in, and the crisis it's brought on Benita now, you'd be a monster not to do the same.

You mimic Benita's stance, kneeling in the pose you kept up all through the day's services, and say a silent prayer...

_Saradomin... I've never prayed to you before. Chances are, I never will again, so I guess you don't have much of a motive to listen._

_But I think you'd listen to Sister Anna. I didn't like her, but I know that she dedicated her life to you, and not even she deserved to die a death like this._

_Look after her, alright?_

You'll ask Zaros for forgiveness, of course. But not here, and not now.

When you're both finished, the two of you get up and leave, legs still treading uneasily -- but far more steady than before. The Abbess gently closes the door behind her, then fetches a jingling ring of keys from within her robes: she locks the door, testing the handle just to make sure it's secure.

She steadies herself against the door for a second, then takes a deep breath and stands up straight.

Back upstairs, to the hall full of priests that anxiously await your return.

* * *

The news has been broken. Of course, you couldn't hear the specifics, but if Benita had specified the state you'd found her in... you imagine there'd be a lot more shock and fear than there was.

They know she's dead. They have no idea _how._ And the worst part of it? Neither do you.

For the time being, the Abbess has escorted you personally to your new bedroom. She knocks sharply on the door and calls inside: "Isabella?"

No response.

"Isabella!"

She opens the door, to find the room empty. One bed is slightly unmade, but that's the only sign of anyone having lived here recently.

Whoever she expected to see in here, Benita seems unruffled by their absence. Instead, she gestures for you to go inside, and you do.

She jingles her keyring at you, presumably to let you know she'll be locking the door after you. No disagreement from you, not with what you've just seen. And for good measure, she presses a finger to her lip once more. You mirror the gesture to confirm, hoping to ease her worries... of which she surely has plenty.

She closes the door behind her and leaves you in relative darkness, alone with filtered moonlight and your memories.  
  
---  
[Wake Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544913)


	52. Shoo Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence.
> 
> Continued from [Continue North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218966).

You wrinkle your nose. What a nasty little mongrel this is! You wave your arms and shout at it, motioning to kick at it with your foot. The dog yelps and scampers away, its tail hung low. 

Now rid of the creature, you make your way out of the alley and consider your options. There’s another street off the main path, which looks as good as any. Staying on the main path in your current state may draw too many questions — at the very least, you might be able to find an inn and take care of the burned bits of your hair. 

You wander down the little side-road. The horrid smell of the city is much stronger here, and you notice that the buildings you pass are in a rather deplorable condition, with broken windows and ancient stains that you’d rather not think about too hard.

You make a face. This sort of thing would never happen in Senntisten. Well, at least the wealthy bits. You shudder to think about the lower parts of the city, which, you hear, have buildings not even connected to the sewers…

Your happy memories of home are interrupted by the sudden and pertinent feeling of something sharp sticking into your back.

“!!!! !! !!!! !! !!!! !!!!!” a voice growls behind you. “!!!”

You freeze. An assassin? Perhaps a bandit after your valuables? Damn that beggar girl, taking your sword…

“!!!!” the voice says. It sounds rather urgent. Perhaps you should try giving it what it wants. 

You desperately dig around in your pockets. Nada. 

It looks like you’re out of options. You open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a blade piercing into your back.

You let out a strangled gasp, slumping to the ground as you struggle for air. You can’t see your attacker, but he seems to be rifling through your pockets. 

What a way to go. 

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	53. Wait for Ozan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Wake up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873225).

You lean back against the fountain. Whatever that thing is, it’s none of your concern. Chasing it will only get you into trouble.

You wait some more, as the sun sets further and shadows stretch longer in the square. You’re fighting back a yawn when Ozan returns. Beside him, clad in light desert robes, is… a woman. 

Your heart sinks, for some reason, but you manage to offer a smile out of politeness as you rise to your feet.

You almost put out an arm, but you stop yourself just in time. Ozan steps forward, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on hers.

“Quint,” he says. “Leela.”

The woman nods, and pushes his hand off her shoulder. “Quint,” she says. “That name is unusual. Tell me — what’s an individual such as you doing, speaking Infernal in the desert?”

Your eyes widen. Her accent is rather off, and her verbiage is a bit formal, and she speaks it far too slowly, but it’s the speech of your empire. Thank Zaros.

“I’m only passing through,” you say. “What is this place?”

“Nardah,” she says. “It is a settlement north of Menaphos and Sophanem, east of the Elid.”

“Elid?” The name is familiar. You’d heard some of the centurions discussing it, you think.

“The river,” the woman says. “It runs through the Kharidian desert —”

“Khardian?” you say. That’s far more familiar, it’s just to the south of the garrison. But if you’ve been traveling south, judging by the sun’s direction…

That would mean…

You shake your head. It’s probably safe to drop pretenses, if only slightly. 

“Where is Kharid-et?” you say. “I need to get there. I, er, have a cousin stationed there…”

Leela gives you a strange look. “Kharid-et?” she says. “Surely you are not speaking of the ruins by the abbey.”

Your stomach twists. “Ruins?”

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “From the Zarosian empire, I believe. There are talks of getting an archaeology team there…”

You shake your head. “No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. Was there a battle there? Has it been abandoned?”

“Slow yourself, it's hard for me to understand you. There was a battle there, but I do not know specifics. It was likely abandoned after that, I would presume.”

“When?” you ask desperately, dreading the answer. 

She shrugs, her nonchalance making your fingers curl into shaking fists. 

“Likely during the God Wars,” she says. “Six thousand years ago, give or take.”

You’re overcome by a wave of dizziness, as you attempt to comprehend the words in your head. “S-s-s-six th-th-thousand?” you stammer. “B-but the empire…”

“The Zarosian empire? It fell to the Third Age conflicts. There’s still the Bandit Camp, I suppose, but…”

You don’t hear what she has to say. Your legs give way, and you collapse to the sandy ground, your head filled with thoughts that you can’t truly comprehend as the world goes black around you.

* * *

You’re jolted awake by the smell of ammonia, which hits your nose like a hammer. You’re lying on a hard surface somewhere inside, it seems, and you see Leela screw the cap back on a small jar. 

Ozan is next to her; when he sees you’re conscious, he immediately grabs your shoulder, his eyes filled with worry. “Quint!”

“What… happened…?” you mutter, your mouth dry. You rub your eyes, brushing away a patch of sand stuck to your cheek. “I was having a nightmare… that the empire fell… and it was six thousand years ago…”

“That was real,” Leela says, putting the jar away. Your stomach twists again, and you’re suddenly glad you haven’t had dinner yet. 

You attempt to get off the thing you’re lying on, which turns out to be a kitchen table, but Ozan stops you with a firm grip on your shoulder. “Rest,” he says. “Don’t fall again.”

You nod, slowly, and settle for sitting on the edge. “So,” you say, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “It’s true? Kharid-et… is a ruin?”

“Yes,” Leela says. Her tone is cold, as though she’s reciting a military report. “And practically everything else from the empire. Lassar. Ghorrock. Senntisten—”

Not Senntisten. Not the Golden City. Not the heart. Every beautiful street, every fountain you played in, the forum you raced through when you were but a child…

A horrible thought occurs to you.

“Kharyll?” you say, almost choking. That’s where they all are. Mother. Father. Thalia, Eligius, Tyndarus. Aelia… she was about to get married… Please, no…

“That’s in Canifis, I believe. North-east of here? There aren’t even ruins, as far as I know.”

You start to shake. “No, no. Please. It can’t be real…”

“Quint,” Ozan says, squeezing your shoulder a little tighter. “Are you alright?”

You shake your head. “I don’t understand.” You look to Leela, who is giving you a very strange look. “What year is it?”

“169.”

“What?!” You can’t have gone backwards….

“What year is it for you?” she counters. 

“Four and two thousand,” you say. “A.Z.”

She turns and says something to Ozan. You don’t understand, but you catch the word insane.

She then back turns to you. “This is… a lot to take in. You should get some rest. There is a room with a bed for you on the second floor.”

You nod, dumbly, and head upstairs, trying not to listen to the urgent conversation occurring behind you.

* * *

It’s too much to hope, you think to yourself, that you would share a room. You’re given your own space, true, but the bed is so tiny that it’s almost not worth it — you can barely roll over without risk of falling off. 

You wish you weren’t the only one in it. 

Left alone, your thoughts bite at you with a vicious hunger. Your mind keeps flashing back to Al Kharid — Kharid, and the desert that stretched for miles. 

Not place. Time, you correct yourself. That thought alone is perhaps most vicious of all. How did this even happen? Was it that nasty little light-thing? You never should have touched it. You never should have stolen that palathai...

What is Senntisten now? A ruin? Something even less than that? Six thousand years… is incomprehensible. You don’t even know of anything more than a couple of thousand years old, for the love of Zaros! Is there anything left? 

If you dug deep enough, would you be able to find your own home again?

You wrench yourself up from your bed and pad out of the room as silently as you can. The little house is silent, the only noise coming from the parchments on the kitchen table as you pass them by. 

You step aside into the blessedly cold desert air, the chill managing to slow your thoughts to merely breakneck speed. You inhale, savoring it like a drink of iced water. 

There’s only half a moon above you, lending a silvery glint to the sandstone buildings. All is quiet; even the fountain in the square seems hushed, the water falling with a soft sigh. 

A gentle breeze passes over you, and your eye catches something swaying on the wall next to you. You turn, and see the rope dangling over the side of the roof-eaves.

You don’t have to think twice about who put it there. With a grunt, you haul yourself up it, slowly, clumsily. 

Ozan makes no remark when you claw up the side to the rooftop. He’s lying on his back, hands behind his head, looking up at the stars.

Wordlessly, you join him, flopping down on the cold stone roof a decent distance away from him. You realize, as you gaze on the night sky, that if you’d bothered to look up before you’d have seen that you hadn’t strayed very far from your garrison at all. You’re rather further south, true, but the sky doesn’t deceive.

You silently trace the familiar constellations in your mind. Capricorn. Aquila. Rodenti Longa Faba Edit.

You hear Ozan release a sigh next to you, a soft hiss in the relative quiet, and then the rustle of his clothes as he turns. 

“You alright?” he asks, in broken Infernal. 

You consider lying. But here, and now, you don’t think you can. 

“No.”

He says nothing, and instead places his hand on your forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. It’s unexpected, but the strength of his grip is strangely reassuring. Still, however, your chest tightens.

You sit up, trying to pull more air into your lungs, which suddenly feel as though they’ve been caught in a vice. He lets go as you do so, and sits up next to you.

“Quintus…” he says, but you shake your head. 

“I don’t know,” you say, your voice coming out in a choke. “Everything…”

Everything is too much. Your home, nothing but a set of ruins. An army, likely no more than skeletons lost in the sand. Your family… your friends… The empire fell. If something that mighty could crumble, how fallible is everything else? Did the things they taught you in school mean nothing? Could your father, and your mother and your older brothers and the senes that stood in the square by the old market all be wrong? 

Could you be wrong? Could your whole life be wrong?

Could you even go back? What would be the point? You’d be on the losing side, after all. Why fight to defend something that would end as dust?

You realize that you’re shaking, perhaps a combination of your shock and the cold night air. Tears cut down your cheeks, and you shake your head, as though to deny everything that’s happened to you. 

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and your rapid breath hitches for a moment. You look up, and see that Ozan’s eyes are filled with worry. 

You look at your feet, embarrassed at such a display of weakness in front of him. However, he grabs your hand — tighter than his grip before.

You look up again, just as he pulls you into a hug. 

You freeze, more out of surprise than anything. His hold on you is solid — perhaps the most solid thing you’ve encountered all day. He says nothing, simply holding you close, and you feel your breath return at a more even pace. 

You close your eyes, letting yourself relax. Your heart slows, and the horrible block in your throat gradually dissolves. 

He keeps hugging you for some time, and when he finally begins to release you, you find yourself reaching around his waist and pulling him back. He doesn’t resist. 

“It will be ok, Quint,” he says. “It will be.” And even if it’s in shaky Infernal, you cling to those words like they’re an anchor.

When you truly do let go, the both of you at once with some reluctance, feeling the warmth radiate off of him in the chilled night air. 

Then, he leans towards you and kisses you on the cheek. No doubt it’s bitter with the taste of salt, but it doesn’t seem to stop him. You counter by turning your head and letting your lips brush across his, and you’re holding each other once more. 

And there are stars above you and a sleeping town below you, and sand and dust from an empire surrounding you.

But maybe here, in this very moment, things can be okay.  
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589534)


	54. Go to Gateway (With Catherina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Wake Up (2)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544913).

Intrigued, you’re about to head down for a clearer look yourself… only to find Catherina overtaking you on the way there. She darts a look back at you -- flashes a quick smile, more timid than anything from yesterday -- and then rests herself against the stone border of the gate, gazing out at what lies beyond it.

You catch up with her, finally getting to see what she’s seeing. Sure enough, there’s a group of musicians out there: they’re twiddling various bits and bobs on their instruments, observing minor changes in each note that they play. All of them are wearing brightly coloured costumes that gleam in the desert morning sun.

The Abbess is heading straight for a man who seems to be their leader: a man in a wide-brimmed hat, whose sleeveless jacket hangs open across his bare chest. You sure wouldn’t mind getting a closer look, but there’s no opportunity for that right now... not with Abbess Benita having some undoubtedly stern words with him. 

You hope she doesn’t scare them off entirely. From a quick glance at Catherina, it looks like she’s just as interested as you are.

As soon as it looks like Benita’s on her way back, Catherina grabs your hand and pulls her away from sight with you. You both duck into a room -- your current bedroom, as it happens -- to hide from her; Catherina’s holding the door ajar, peeking through the slightest gap, and waiting for the time to emerge.

She hasn’t let go of your hand. You hope she doesn’t notice that. You don’t want her letting go.

After a minute or so, Catherina gives a brisk nod: the coast seems relatively clear. She _squeezes_ your hand(!!) and brings you out with her: out of your room, out through the gate, and out to the musicians.

When she inevitably lets you go, it’s so she can bound up to the hat man with energy unlike anyone else you’ve seen today. You stumble-run to reach her, finding her already in the process of introducing herself and you. Hat man gives a genuine (though hesitant) smile in return to her enthusiasm, and gives you a nod in recognition of your presence.

Catherina drops her own name into conversation. The man with the hat gives a response with the word “Valerio”... and you _hope_ you’re correct in assuming that’s his name. (For all you know of this language, he may as well be called “I’m”.) You subconsciously expect her to introduce you to him as well… only to realise that not even _she_ knows your name.

For pragmatic reasons, you’ll keep on pretending to be mute. It’s been a day, after all, and it’d be suspicious to break the illusion _now._

The conversation continues, and you just can’t take your eyes off Valerio: there’s a natural charisma to the way he speaks and the openness in his physical expression. And quite frankly, he’s _beautiful_. Where your skin burns in the sunlight, his practically seems to glow; he seems perfectly at home in the brightness of day.

He can probably tell that you’re staring at him. But Catherina’s the one talking to him, and so she’s the one he’s replying to. You watch the two of them, and only faintly respond to whatever acknowledgements they make in your direction.

Well, at least they seem to be happy.

After a while of playing third wheel, you watch Valerio call to his band: two of them get into position with their instruments, while a third and fourth line up, facing each other. 

You’re about to make your escape from this awkward encounter, but Catherina grabs your hand _(again?!)_ and has you sit down on a mat with her. Time for a performance, huh. At least this is something you can do _with_ her, not just _watch_ her do… and as you’re sitting down, for whatever reason, she’s _still_ holding your hand.

(You anticipate that’ll last right up until the song’s over and you’re stuck behind the language barrier again.)

Once you’re seated, Valerio looks back around him to the rest of his troupe. There’s a small sheet of vellum(?) on the floor, but he bats it aside with a shoe after nothing more than a cursory glance. He plays some introductory notes, tapping his foot four times in rhythm…

In perfect sync, the band snaps into action. 

It’s the second new kind of music you’ve heard in just as many days: while not as overwhelming as the sisters’ song, there’s far more energy to it. There’s just something about it that hooks you into its joyful motion. You see Catherina’s foot tapping, you realise that yours is doing the same, and you wonder… why are you both still sitting down?

Giving her hand a squeeze, you stand up and help her up too. You watch the movements of the two dancers with the troupe and try your absolute best to copy them… and despite Catherina’s laughter, she’s soon dancing to the music right along with you. You can’t really tell whether she’s any good or not, but you sure can tell that she’s having fun.

The man in the hat seems _delighted_ to see the two of you getting into it, regardless of how good you may or may not be. He takes confident steps forward, still strumming away on his instrument, not getting in your way but swaying in time as you go.

You’ve lost track of time once the music ends and you finally come to a stop. You’re panting and a little sweaty, but so is Catherina -- turns out her face gets just as red as yours does, which you can’t help but find rather cute.

The man looks ecstatic (almost teary-eyed, oddly) and throws an exuberant arm around both of you alike. 

… _both_ of you. You and Catherina share a look, one that’d convey joy in any language. You sink happily into the feeling of his arm around you, and it looks like he has no intent on letting go --

A scream from the temple! It’s faint, but you heard it, and so did everyone else here: you feel the man’s twitch, a look of dread suddenly filling his face. Catherina looks at you in confusion, and you…

You’d hoped this wouldn’t happen again.  
  
---  
[Run to the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133310)  
[Hide Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133397)


	55. Go to Gateway (Without Catherina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Wake Up (2)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544913).

There’s a mild curiosity from some of the priests, but most steer clear: seems like Abbess Benita is the one exception. Barring yourself, of course. You go to the gateway to peek... 

There’s a group of musicians out there: they’re twiddling various bits and bobs on their instruments, observing minor changes in each note that they play. All of them are wearing brightly coloured costumes that gleam in the desert morning sun.

The Abbess is heading straight for a man who seems to be their leader: a man in a wide-brimmed hat, whose sleeveless jacket hangs open across his bare chest. You sure wouldn’t mind getting a closer look, but there’s no opportunity for that right now... not with Abbess Benita having some undoubtedly stern words with him. 

You notice her turn back towards the temple. You dart back into your current bedroom, conveniently nearby, and hold the door ajar until the Abbess has passed. The coast is clear: time to do some investigation of your own. In all likelihood, your words for them will be a lot kinder than Benita’s.

(Unless they’re _bad_ musicians, of course. But on a tense morning like this, you could probably do to get some good heckling in.)

Making your way back out, you get a clearer look at the little gathered troupe. There’s five of them, milling about under a cloth sunshade. Three of them hold instruments, including the leader with the hat and bare chest. You’re not sure what the other two will be doing. Chanting?

You greet them as you draw near: “ _Salve!_ ” No point in pretending to be mute around these people -- that little deception’s already proving tiresome up at the temple. 

The leader looks up at you. His eyes seem distracted, but he walks towards you with open arms, greeting you in whatever language he speaks. You speak a bit more of your own language, saying nothing in particular (it comes out as something like "dragonflies roost at dawn, and your chest is excellent"), and he seems to be none the wiser. He looks to his drummer for help, getting nothing but a shrug in return.

Time to go simpler. You place a hand on your chest: “Quint.”

“Valerio,” replies the band leader. He points out the rest of the band members to you as well: “Andrea, Bea, Emmeline, Dara.” Then he has a question for you: he waves a hand up and down your robes, then jerks his chin in the direction of the temple. _You come from there?_

You shrug. _If I tried explaining that across the language barrier, we’d be here a whole week. At least._

He nods. _Fair enough._ Then he taps his instrument: it looks to be played with strings, and a strap around his shoulders has the thing hanging near his waist. The round base of it almost looks to be topped with a cithara, but a long segment stretches out, long enough that he has to reach another arm over to the end of it.

_Wanna hear us play?_

You don’t even realise how much you’re smiling until he smiles right back -- and _wow_ , what a feeling that is. He gestures for you to go sit on a mat nearby; as you do so, you notice him bend down to pick up a scrap of vellum(?) from the floor. He studies it well before putting it back where it came from.

The music that follows… it’s very different from what the sisters sang (and _vastly_ different from any music you’ve heard before), but there’s a solemn sincerity to both of them. You could never imagine this being played in the hall of the temple, not with the enticing allure of the tune (not to mention that of its lead singer). This doesn’t sound holy, per se, and yet… 

The way Valerio sings… 

Despite years of attending parades, of hearing all the music that Senntisten had to offer, you haven’t heard anyone sing with this honest passion since…

… since Sister Anna. For all her flaws, you can’t help but wonder: what will the temple’s music be like without her?

Valerio’s song is a tragic one: you can grasp that from the sound of it alone. There’s beauty in there, but it’s _lost_ beauty. The pain of it shows honestly in every aspect of his performance: his eyes are tightly shut and you can see his chest heave with the full emotional force that he’s putting into this.

You’re not used to seeing this much emotional honesty, but it means that even you can draw the obvious conclusion: someone, or something, has broken this man’s heart. 

The music ends, the last notes of it fading, but Valerio still seems to be trapped in the time of that song. He doesn’t move from his position of lead performer, his eyes shut, his head tilted downwards.

You get up and approach him.

“Valerio?” You place a hand on his shoulder.

He opens his eyes, looking into yours: “Quint.”

And with that, he turns the placement of a single hand into a full-blown hug, his bare skin pressed against your heavy robes, your heads on each other’s shoulders. The two of you hold each other as if everything you have might vanish in an instant.

Seeing as for you, it already _has…_ you’re damn glad to have a hug like this. You don’t want to break away from him, fearful that he, too might vanish -- the same way that Catherina did, running away from her life at the temple and leaving you behind.

Like you running away from Senntisten on the night that everything fell. You’d seen the flames, and yet part of you had still desperately wanted to stay.

There’s a scream -- it’s unmistakable. Must be someone in the temple -- _another_ someone. Your eyes snap open, and you push Valerio away just enough to let you stare desperately into his eyes. He _needs_ to know how serious this is, because while he might not know what’s happened… you do.

What do you do? What _can_ you do?  
  
---  
[Run to the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133493)  
[Hide Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133574)


	56. Wake Up (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue (3)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218435).

The night passed far too slowly for your liking, continuously interrupted by periods of semi-consciousness… and filled with nightmares otherwise. You can't shake the smell of rancid blood, even now.

At sunrise, Benita comes to unlock your door. She eyes you warily as you emerge, and you remind her: yes. Finger on the lips. There's no way you're forgetting that, not with the events of the previous day burned into memory as with too many others.

There's a dawn prayer service that you seem to have missed yesterday. Seeing as your routine now seems to be ‘mindlessly following everyone else’, you suppose you may as well attend this one. 

This particular service, though, seems nowhere near 'routine'. The Abbess is leading the priests in a solemn prayer, and though no names are mentioned, it's not hard to guess who they're praying about. You feel the weight of it, in every person gathered. One of the younger ones is crying in her own silence; she briefly unfolds one hand to wipe the tears, hoping no one will notice… and then you see her look up, catching the Abbess' kindly gaze as she looks on.

You've never seen a leader quite like Abbess Benita. She wouldn't suit the military, of course, but it seems like she suits this place… and, though you hate to speak ill of the dead, perhaps a lot better than Sister Anna did.

Breakfast is a grim affair. No more chatter, no more confusion: no one's in the mood for anything aside from making their way through Elena's soup. You find yourself eating it mechanically, losing focus of what anything tastes or feels like.

As everyone emerges from the dining room and heads off to go about their business, you start to hear some odd sounds. Little twangs... from string instruments? The only _possible_ instrument you've seen in the temple is the strange device upstairs, linked to various metal tubes. The wavering sound of those little plucks… you can’t imagine how they might come from such a contraption.

And the sound isn't coming from that direction, anyway. Whatever it is, it’s outside the temple. _Close_ outside.

In the movement of people leaving breakfast, you see Abbess Benita cut through the crowd across the courtyard. A large metal grating across the gateway has been lowered overnight; she hauls her way up a ladder to a mechanism that opens it, then clambers back down to venture outside.

She sure doesn't look happy.

_[How did you reach this point?]_

Helped Elena in the kitchen  
Followed Catherina to the scriptorium  
  
---  
[Go to Gateway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59545492)  
  
_[go back]_  
  
---  
[Go to Gateway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59545375)  
  
_[back]_


	57. Pet Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59218966).

Trying not to think too hard about whatever insect populations this creature may be harbouring, you reach out and cautiously pat the dog on the head.

The tail wagging intensifies, and the dog happily closes its eyes under your hand. 

“Good boy,” you murmur. Its tail wags even harder, its entire body swaying back and forth with the motion. It doesn’t matter that you said it in Infernal. Some sentiments are understood beyond words.

The wagging doesn’t stop even as you pull your hand away. As you exit the alley, you realize that the dog is following behind, looking to you imploringly. 

You sigh. Damn your soft heart! But having a companion in these strange streets may be useful. 

“Alright, boy. C’mon.” You slap the side of your leg, and the dog rises to its feet, trotting obediently behind you.

You look to your left. There’s a street off the main road, which seems as good as any to travel down. You might find an inn, or perhaps a  _ popina _ …

The dog lets out a low whine, its ears pinned back and its tail tucked between its legs. As you step towards the sideway, you notice it refuses to move.

You look down the passage. It seems innocuous. True, the street isn’t as clean, and some of the buildings have broken windows and mysterious stains, and a shady individual lurking about in the shadows holding a pointy object…

Ah. Hm. Perhaps going down that alleyway isn’t a good idea. You turn back to the main road, and the dog relaxes, following behind you once more as its tail begins to wag. 

You make your way down the road, feeling slightly out of place with your ragged state of dress. The passersby don’t seem to mind you, however, and you turn your attention to the buildings that line the street. They seem to be built of grey stone, similar to what you’ve seen west of Senntisten, and you hear the splash of a fountain up ahead.

A colorful patch in the sea of grey catches your eye. To your left is a garish tent, seemingly made from a patchwork of cloth and canvas of every clashing colour. A single, half-lidded eyeball on a pole stands outside the tent flap. 

You stare at in horrified fascination. Its heavily-lashed lid suddenly moves, causing it to blink, and you recoil in disgust. 

“What would you even try to sell with this?” you mutter to yourself. “Huh, dog? Dog?”

You turn, just in time to see your companion’s tail disappear behind the tent flap. 

Without thinking, you dash after him, shouting angrily. “Bad dog! Come back here!”

You freeze. There’s an old woman, her stark-white hair pulled back by a headband, wearing a dress as patchy and garish as the tent. She’s sitting, one hand on the dog’s head, scratching it behind the ears. The other is on a glass orb resting on the table next to her, its interior filled with strange and swirling mists.

“Welcome, traveler,” she says, in perfect Infernal. “You have questions, I trust.”  
  
---  
[Talk to Old Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589090)  
[Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589207)


	58. Make your Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow the Priests [continued]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/58873105).

Yeah, you'll get out while you still can.

All in all, the temple has provided you with a decent night's sleep, a single breakfast, some incredible music, and as many meals as you can carry... just as soon as you finish stuffing this sack. You can't take _everything_ , of course: you've devised a thorough assessment process to determine which of these unidentified vegetables are worth bringing along. It involves a lot of nibbling.

(The long, pointy orange ones are _nice._ You'll definitely bring a good few handfuls of those. For all your moral compunctions you have against living with these people, you can at least admit with clear conscience that Saradominist vegetables taste incredible.)

With enough food stashed away to last you a week -- assuming you don't get sick of being a herbivore -- you uncover the escape tunnel once again, ready to venture on out.

You take a last look back at the temple as you go: at the stove you vaguely sort of didn't clean, at the cabbage chunks Elena abandoned when she left to wherever she went, at the stairs up to the dining room where you and Catherina met.

You push your sack through the tunnel first, and then follow it. Time to leave the temple behind.

You stick close to the temple wall at first, ensuring nobody spots you from the upper levels, then swerve as far as you can for it when the entrance is in view. It seems to take forever, but you make it clear away: the wide open desert has never seemed quite so inviting.

Freedom!

Even so, there's a long, sandy journey ahead of you. Your enthusiasm kinda wears out after the first hundred footsteps into the sand: from then on, you just find yourself wishing you were at the city already so that the freedom could _really_ kick in. It's midday, and the sun is hard at work making you sweaty and miserable. The sooner you can find some shade and put down this damn sack, the better.

About halfway there, you think you might have the solution to your "lugging a sack across a long stretch of desert" problem: the sounds of a musical performance are echoing over the dunes from a cluster of colourful tents. It's a bright, lively song, leagues away from what you heard at the temple, but just as far away from anything you've ever heard before. Looks like a great place to rest a while before you continue your journey.

Yeah. The only flaw in that plan is the ground-rattling shrieks occasionally coming from that direction, presumably from the giant monstrous heads that keep breaking above the line of the horizon.

If there's people there playing music, though, it's gotta be safe... right?

(Right??)  
  
---  
[Investigate Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888752)  
[Keep going to City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888806)


	59. Wake Up (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue (4)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59219371).

Your eyes slowly creak open. Everything is far too bright — is this another one of Decurio Melanius’ little drills? You roll over and pull your barracks blanket over your eyes to block out the light. As you do, you hear a clinking at your feet.

You open your eyes again, despite the unpleasant glare. White brick above you… certainly not what you’re used to seeing in Kharid-et. And this blanket… it’s doesn’t feel like it’s made from vegetable sacking. In fact, it’s actually fluffy.

You sit up.

You’re in a rather small small cell, by the looks of it. It’s practically the size of a closet, barely big enough to fit the bed you’re resting in. You shift, and hear the clicking again — as you pull the blanket back, you see that your left ankle is tethered to the bars with an iron chain.

You fall back with a groan. Out one cage and into another… you never should have come here. You never should have tried to steal that necklace….

Something moves in front of you, just outside of the cell, and it catches your eye. You sit up again, and see the white knight from earlier — Sir End — sitting in front of the cell, patiently watching you.

You give him a dirty look and pull the blanket over your head once more. The nerve! He’s likely to one who threw you in this cell after… after…

...Well, you’re not entirely sure what exactly happened after he teleported you to this place. That’s all a little fuzzy.

But that doesn’t matter! Your fists clench as you give the knight what you hope is a look of fierceness. He doesn’t respond, his face remaining stoic as ever.

His face… with his chiseled jawline and dark hair…

Damn it! He’s likely using his Saradominist wiles on you to crumble your resolve. You turn away, crossing your arms. You hear him let out a soft hmph in response, but he otherwise doesn’t move.

So it continues. The afternoon passes, if the sun in the window is any indication, and you’re given a passable hunk of bread and bowl of soup at round dinnertime (No wine, though? Heathens) and you spend a fitful night trying to sleep with the cursed cuff around your ankle.

The knight is still there in the morning, reading a book and barely sparing you a glance when you wake. You scowl, and pick up the bowl of soaked oats that’s presumably been provided as your breakfast. It’s bland, but filling, and you boredly begin to dig in.

As you do, you look at the book the knight is reading. The first few words you don’t recognize — what is a ‘dummy’ in any case? — but the next few you unmistakably recognize.

 _Infernis Stupidis_. A translation book, by the looks of it — one that would bridge the language gap between you and your captors.

You’re so surprised that you drop your spoon, and it bounces across the floor with a clatter. Sir End sighs, setting the book down and bending down to grab the utensil.

As he does, you notice the book is within grabbing distance. If you take it without him noticing, and hide it away, then you might be able to learn what they’re saying — and what they’re planning to do with you.

However, something else catches your eye. The knight’s bag is resting near his chair, also within reaching distance, and you see one of those strange clay tablets poking out of it. You know if you grab it and smash it, it’ll teleport you out of here — likely to the city square from before, but you could end up elsewhere.

What do you take?  
  
---  
[Take Book](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133637)  
[Take Tablet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63210814)


	60. Investigate Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Make your Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888728).

Well, if the overpowering music of the temple is no longer in your life, you may as well fill that void with this.

You're finding that you instinctively walk in rhythm with the music, even when it's hundreds of yards away. It's catchy, that's for sure -- there's something to it that invigorates you, keeps you going stronger than ever. You'd be far happier doing drills if they were to a tune like this.

You climb one large dune, and from the top, you can start to make out details of the camp. At the centre of the tents, there's a small sheltered area housing three musicians and three dancers; their audience sits on cushions and mats nearby. You presume nobody's gonna mind if you join them -- you don't exactly have any _money_ to offer, but your sack of vegetables has gotta be worth something, right?

Hang on.

Is that Sister Elena?

You come a few yards closer, and -- it _is_ , isn't it?! Hair down, wearing a deep red dress, dancing by the lead musician. You can tell that she's a little out of time with the music, but she makes up for that by swinging her whole body into this dance. In very close proximity to that singer, too -- a lot closer than you'd expect if she's only just met him now...

Well. Between that and the escape tunnel, you think you're beginning to join some dots.

You join the audience at an angle where the band aren't facing you, to try and avoid drawing anyone's attention. Elena seems to be twirling around a lot, but her attention's far more fixed on the singer than on anyone in the audience, so you're probably safe.

And speaking of the singer... you kind of wish you were in a position to see him better (though the view from behind sure ain't bad). He's got a powerful voice and a hell of a presence: his interplay with Elena is mesmerising to watch. She may not keep perfect time, but still, there's something about those two people that's _perfectly_ in sync.

You don't _want_ to envy that... but you kinda do anyway.

The song ends, and the two of them embrace each other in an instant (which certainly doesn't help with the envy you don't want to be having). Elena breaks the embrace, though --

She's seen you.

No avoiding it now...  
  
---  
[Awkwardly greet Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62857447)


	61. Keep going to City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Make your Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888728).

You're not taking any chances here. For all you know, following that music could lead you to your death.

That said, you are pretty damn exhausted no matter what. You'll call it lunchtime: you sit cross-legged on the sand and break out one of your trusty... unnamed long pointy orange vegetables. Whatever they are, they sure crunch just nicely.

As much as you'd like to keep on sitting down, you've gotta keep on moving: you creak your aching legs back up from the ground, haul that sack over your shoulder again, and resume the cityward trudge. Not too far off now, at least, and you swear you're close enough to hear the sounds of... however many people are living there. Gotta be in the tens of thousands, at _least._

At last, the great sandstone walls of the city loom up at you; the city above stretches even higher still, as if it's outgrown its own defences. Constrained by its boundaries, unable to grow any further outward, you see the buildings instead stretching upward to the sky: three storey buildings seem normal here, with four or even five rickety floors on some. Awnings and balconies jut out from the sides, and everywhere, _everywhere,_ there are people. Someone's hanging wet clothes on clotheslines that stretch between buildings. There's a kid taking a runup and a leap to snatch a handful of clothing, making a getaway on a nearby roof. Guards dressed in golden fabric are surrounding the buildings, weapons pointed up high but not high enough; another kid barrels right through their formation, knocking them off their guard.

You can admire the efficiency of their operation... but all the same, you have the sudden urge to clutch your sack as close to you as possible.

You proceed forward, past the gate and through the street, taking a side passage which gives the current guard fracas a wide berth. That takes you to a (slightly) quieter, more shaded part of the city -- the background roar of life and commerce and thievery is still there, but the worst happening in this street is someone tripping on a rock. You speed up a little, wanting to put as much distance between you and the guards as possible.

Every so often, you swear you catch a glimpse of eyes watching you from alleys to the side. They're gone before you notice them, but the prickling sensation has you walking even faster in spite of your exhaustion. There's an intersection with a wide open street at the end of the road. Maybe you'd rather be in one of those after all.

Sunlight hits you as you emerge into that bustling main road; for once, you're _relieved_ to be in the scorching daylight. You look along the road: to the left, market stalls trail off into the distance in one direction, while the gate on your right leads to an oasis (with requisite camel) accompanied by some structure building beyond the city bounds. Right in front of you, a small creature (is that a gnome? a dwarf would probably be bearded) is guarding a winged contraption four times his size. His strange eyewear makes you wonder: can he _fly_ that thing?  
  
---  
[Go to Market](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589126)  
[Go Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57501208)  
Talk to Gnome(?) (coming soon)


	62. Continue (5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Get some Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/57834352).

The whole troupe eventually joins you in the cool light of the morning.

You try to get some answers out of Bea and Dara, the dancers, when they emerge from their shared tent. Most of your questions involve gestures in the direction of Valerio and looks of concern… and as far as responses go, what they manage consists of pretty much the same.

Andreas is the one you’re closest to, and unfortunately for you, he takes a good half hour longer than any of the others to wake up. Big guy, heavy sleeper. When he _does_ emerge, you feel an odd relief when he heads immediately for you, only casually greeting the others in the oddly clipped tone that doesn’t quite match his deep, rough voice.

You’ve wondered if he doesn’t speak this language quite as fluently as the rest of them do. Maybe he started out only knowing as much as you do -- or even less. That’s an item on your list of things to ask... as soon as you have enough grasp of their language to do so.

(It’s a growing list, and you anticipate it being a good while before it gets any shorter… but it surprises you to realise how long-term you’re thinking here.)

“Andreas,” you affirm, keeping your voice relatively low -- Valerio’s still hard at work in his hunched-over state, and there’s an odd reverential silence that the group of you have tacitly agreed on.

He matches your tone: “Quint,” is his resolute, quietly affectionate reply. He nods his head over in the direction of the troupe’s resident singer, and you shrug -- there, now he’s as caught up as the rest of you are as to what exactly is going on with the guy.

Andreas looks over to Valerio, with the same concern but a different sense of purpose. He closes the distance that all of you have been keeping, sitting himself down gently next to the man. No interference, no attempts at conversation, nothing but his presence.

The rest of you stand up, gathering around to get a close-but-not-too-close look. You watch as Valerio slowly scribbles a few last words… then slowly sets his quill down, turning around first to Andreas and then to the rest of his group. You try, and mostly fail, not to look like you’re staring too hard.

Though his eyes are dry now, you swear you can see tear stains on his face. The rest of his expression is heartbreakingly unreadable.

He gets up, closing his notebook as he goes. He calls solemn instructions to the rest of the troupe, then repeats himself in a way you can understand by beginning to dismantle his tent.

On the move already, huh.

The members of the troupe are buzzing around the campsite for the next hour or so, transforming the location you met them at into just another empty patch of desert. You’re a little slow and mostly don’t know what you’re doing, but Andreas helps you out a fair bit once he’s done with his own. The two of you then go and help out Valerio -- he’s been moving so slowly, he’s only barely half-finished by the time Andreas has taken down both your tent and his. You don’t look Valerio in the eye, lest your worry makes him feel worse.

The way he’s acting now, it’s as if everyone’s behind the same language barrier as you: he’s barely talking, barely communicating in any way apart from the occasional gesture. Barely seems cognisant of where he is or what he’s doing: as you continue the dismantling process, you notice his hands occasionally missing whatever he’s trying to pick up. You’re sure to look away afterwards, to make it seem like nobody’s seeing his mistakes. In this state, though, you’re not sure he’s noticing you at all.

Your chest seizes into a dull, tight pain on seeing it all. The odd moments of eye contact with the others confirm you’re not alone in that.

Eventually, your new home exists solely within a few compact bags. You’re tasked with carrying one of them: swinging the strap over your shoulders, you take a few cautious steps to test the weight. Yeah, you can still walk… just.

You hope you won’t have to be carrying this for long.

Valerio seems to be setting off in his own direction: not towards the city, but in the exact opposite direction: towards the _temple_ , where you can’t imagine anyone will be welcoming to music or outfits like yours. Certainly not The Shouty One (whatever her name was -- Anno?)

Looking around the troupe, there’s quite a range of reactions to this. Andreas is following, no questions asked. Emmeline’s standing right where she is, looking at the two of them go in utter confusion. Dara and Bea are talking quietly among themselves, with Bea in particular looking less than entirely happy about the new direction.

And you?

Well, you’ve got nowhere else to go. You follow Valerio’s lead, one hand on the heavy bag to keep it still as you walk.

Back to the temple it is -- back to the abbess whose help you abandoned and the angry priest who wanted you gone. Just more worries to cloud your mind on yet another journey across the desert sands.

* * *

Well, here you are again. Time for the dismantled tents to get set up all over again, in much the same process as before.

This time, though, your work is watched over by the tall whitewashed sandstone that forms the Saradominist temple. Saradomin's stars look down at you in moral judgement.

 _Quit it,_ you think at them. _What could I get from_ you _that these people haven't already given me?_

(The stars maintain their stony silence.)

Once the task is done -- quicker than before, because despite the exertion you're all at least a little more awake -- you see Valerio equipping his musical instrument once more. In the absence of any verbal context, everyone else seems to take this as an instruction. Of course, you grab your tambourine to match -- you'd become used to giving it a few happy shakes and hearing its wonderful jingling, but for now you hold it still.

Valerio's torn a piece of paper from his notebook. He studies it one more time, then lays it gently on the ground. He looks at Andreas, and then for a second, right at you -- more directness than you've seen from him all day, in a way that makes your heart jump -- and sends you a mid-tempo beat in stomps and taps of his foot. Andreas echoes it with his drums, and you weave in the tambourine.

The foundation is laid. Valerio begins his song.

He’s singing to no audience but the impenetrable walls of the temple, to the wrought metal gate with its points skewered into the ground. His eyes are crammed shut, and there’s a closedness in his pose -- but as you watch, you can see him physically relax. You feel the relief settling into your body, coursing through your once-tense muscles.

You can see Emmeline giving the temple an occasional glance -- maybe she’s not quite as sold on playing to a sandstone wall. She weaves her instrument into the music regardless, while Dara and Bea collaboratively build up a dance from individual movements. 

And the temple gate opens. A single figure comes out, hurrying down the slight slope towards you: you notice as it gets closer that it’s Abbess Benita. You have to fight your instinct to hide, knowing that it’s too late for that -- if she hasn’t seen you already, it’s mere seconds before she does.

Her target isn’t you, though. She _does_ give you a look of surprised suspicion, but that’s quickly gone as she turns to Valerio. 

There’s something different about her: a guardedness that wasn’t there when she invited you to stay yesterday. She holds herself a little off-centre, but still strong and upright; she’s not _quite_ intruding on Valerio’s personal space, but she’s close to it. It’s verging on what you might expect from Anna ( _that’s_ what her name was), not from her.

Valerio doesn't seem to know her… but someone he _does_ seem to know is Anna. You hear her name come up six, seven times in the conversation, and it’s always uttered with sadness. And almost reverence. Now _that’s_ a surprise.

Whatever case he’s arguing, Valerio is doing so with nothing but the gentlest pressure, respectful even in his clear hurt. You can see that Benita’s breath is getting shaky, and you swear you notice the tiniest trace of a tear in the corner of her eye. She doesn’t let it fall.

It looks like she’s finally accepted her defeat here. She turns half away and makes one final acidic statement to the whole troupe. She’s refusing to look at you… and yet you feel like she’s insulted you regardless.

“Get out of here!” you yell after her. She whirls around and oh, _now_ she looks at you -- that’s a full-on glare. Well, there goes that ‘muteness’ act you were trying to pull with her. You enjoyed abusing the temple’s kindness, while it lasted. Now? Your lies are in the open, your ties have been severed, and you couldn’t be more glad for it.

“Saradominist scum,” you mutter, as she returns to her little fortress. Andreas looks at you with consternation. Bea laughs, and comes over to perform a gesture of companionship that Dara taught you yesterday: the two of you each raise an open palm and slap them together. It’s an instant jolt of good feelings, every time.

Valerio… doesn’t seem to approve. His look breaks up your little party, and the two of you move back into position.

There’s another priest coming out: her hood is lowered despite the glare of sunlight, and you can see it lighting up her golden hair. She scurries downwards towards you, and Valerio takes notice instantly -- and oh, _right_. You try your best to suppress the jealousy.

She bounds up to Valerio and introduces herself -- “Catherina!” -- with enthusiasm; Valerio introduces all of you in kind, suddenly just as open and cheery as you’re used to him being. Her eyes -- pretty blue eyes -- seem to light up in recognition on seeing you… and suddenly you see _exactly_ why Valerio took notice.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Saradominist scum this cute.

Valerio seems to invite her to watch a performance, and Catherina happily plonks herself down on the mats you’ve got set out. An audience of one -- an improvement! But Valerio’s not about to let her sit this out, and gives her a hand up… then takes _your_ hand to join it to hers.

Even in the rising heat, you can’t help shivering at the two separate touches. You hold her hand tight, not wanting to let go.

But you do, occasionally, over the course of the dance you two perform. It’s different from what Bea and Dara are doing, but it’s _yours_ , and you’re enjoying it! You weave around Valerio as well, rattling your tambourine up high, moving on the beat with the two of them.

Are you bad at this? Probably, and she might be as well. But in the moment of it, in each look you get from Valerio and Catherina, in the rhythm your heart is pounding far faster than any music -- you simply couldn’t care less.

When the song finishes, Valerio flings his arms around the pair of you, and you just can’t help but laugh. You’ve never felt so happy before.

A scream pierces right through the moment -- coming from the temple. You watch concern appear on Catherina’s face -- but Valerio’s joy drops in an _instant_. He lets go of the two of you to sprint up to the temple gates, as fast as he can manage.

You and Catherina share a worried look...  
  
---  
[Hide Somewhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947590)  
[Go with Valerio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947239)


	63. Go to Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Keep going to City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888806).

The vast range of market stalls promises a multitude of opportunities. All these vegetables you’re carrying must be worth _something_ \-- you could swap them for any number of things! New clothes that aren’t these heavy, sandblasted Saradominist robes, for instance. Or a decent place to sleep, or some jewellery, or more new clothes, or…

Oh hey, what’s that?

One market stall is loaded up with all sorts of strange contraptions. Several small, round gadgets with metal backing and glass covers produce a steady ticking noise. Someone is turning a hat inside and out: it’s red turned out one way, blue on the other, and either way, a small glass orb nearby is flashing in response. The well-dressed merchant running the stall drops a seed onto the ground, and when it instantly springs a tall plant from the desert sands… you’re not the only one watching with awe.

Foreign magical technology. Yes, _this_ is the sort of thing you could report on back at Kharid-et -- perhaps it’d be enough to win you free from your jail sentence!

You stroll up to the stall, where the owner seems fairly amenable to people trying out the goods: there’s a large ornate orb that immediately grabs your attention. To free up your hands, you put your vegetable sack on the ground: you hold it between your feet to trap it there, in case any thieves get ideas. You take the orb in both hands -- there’s an immediate heaviness there, but also an odd resonance buzzing into your hands, slowly intensifying. Shining green panels on all sides draw your eye unavoidably, and as you look into one…

_Wow!_

Somehow, your vision has been transported out of your body: what you’re currently seeing is _yourself_ looking at the orb. It takes a moment to get used to -- you barely ever see yourself in a mirror, and having the image be three-dimensional is even stranger! Once that shock’s worn off, though, you notice exactly how sweaty and sunburnt you look under that hood… yeah, probably time to look at something else.

All it takes is a thought for your vision to turn, far more than just turning your neck would ever allow you to: you soon find yourself looking in the opposite direction, though your line of sight is still mostly blocked by the crowd. It’d be great if you were tall enough to look over them --

Oh. Oh, you can fly now. Okay.

Well, your body can’t, but your line of sight sure can: for the second time in two days, you find yourself effortlessly soaring above the ground. You look down, and suddenly you can see nothing of the people but their hair or their hats --

Apart from the people on the rooftops, barely distinguishable in head-to-toe sandstone yellow, leaping across buildings and taking their positions. All along the rooftops bordering the market street. All looking right down at you.

You snap back into your body in a shock, feeling suddenly oddly heavy for having a physical form again. With trembling limbs, you plonk that orb right back on the market stall, pick up your precious vegetable sack again, and _run_ , no care for the direction -- just wherever your legs take you.

Your legs take your skull directly into a wall.

* * *

You come to drowsy consciousness in a small cell. (Oh, great. Jail _again_.) A painful throbbing emanates from right in the middle of your forehead, though you reckon the most lasting impression you’ll get from that is embarrassment. There’s nothing below you but a rather thin mattress, and above you...

The figure of a man swims into vision. He’s robed in a variety of colours, from his long purple coat to the muted red blade of the dagger at his belt. He’s solidly built, solidly bearded, and you can tell he’s tall -- anyone would seem a looming presence from your position on the floor, but you have a hunch he’d tower over you anyway. Even more than most people do.

You want to get up, get on at least a slightly more even plane with him, but his glare is a firm instruction to _stay exactly where you are._

(That works too. You’re not sure you even _could_ get up.)

“??? ??? ????” he says, in a low, smooth voice. When met with your terrified blank stare, he tries another language, then another. You feel your heart jump when the fourth he tries is Infernal: “Who are you?”

It feels like years since you've heard anyone speak your own language.

“My name is Ineptias,” you say, to no perceptible reaction. “Are you sure you’ve got the right person? I haven’t done anything!”

The man taps a single finger against the flat of his dagger’s blade.“Don’t play that game. Not with me.” This is when you realise that the comforting presence of Elena’s kitchen knife has vanished. Shame -- she had good taste in knives.

Unfortunately, this man has even better taste.

“I’m Quint,” you say. “Uh, Quintus Aurelius Stoke. What do you want from me?”

“I have work for you, Quintus. The wisest choice here is to accept it.”

_Oh, really?_ you think. _No, I think I’d feel perfectly comfortable turning down a job from you. On the floor, unarmed, barely conscious._

You make a wiser choice than voicing those thoughts. “Why me? I still think you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Because you are new to this city, with no history predating your arrival at the abbey. Because you look like a visitor here, and likely are. Because you know no one, and work alone. These make you an ideal candidate to help me in a matter of some urgency.”

Collaborating with the enemy? This could work to your advantage: play along, gather intel, sneak away, come home a hero!

“Sure,” you say. “What’s the work?”

The man takes a deep breath. “There is a fruit with the most…” He searches for the right word. “ _Exquisite_ juice. It grows in a garden owned by a sorceress, who used to grant me as much of the juice as I desired, but now… does not.” He’s a little hunched over now; there’s something oddly desperate in his eyes. “You must go to her garden, bypass her extensive security, and bring me the juice. Freshly-squeezed, if possible.”

Huh.

Not the work you’d imagined, but you’ll take it. Sounds kind of fun, actually -- and after your experience with Elena’s vegetables, you’re _always_ down to pilfer some weird fruit.

“It is… a sensitive matter,” the man continues. “Tell no one.”

“You got it,” you assure him.

The man nods, and straightens his back, heightening the menace of his glare directly down at you. “You will take the work, I presume?”

You take a moment to consider your options.  
  
---  
[Do What He Says](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258292)  
[Do What He Says](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258403)


	64. Leave (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pet Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544538).

You immediately turn around and leave. 

_Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope…._ Creepy old lady with a colourblind sense for interior design? An eyeball sign? And that makeup? Absolutely not. You don’t care if she’s the only person in this entire city who speaks Infernal. You’re not taking any chances.

You make your way through the square, stopping briefly to splash yourself in the fountain. 

_Pull yourself together, Stoke,_ you think. _You’re deep in the heart of enemy territory. Your allies are far. You don’t know the language. At any moment, you could make a wrong move and pay the price with your life._

You come to the conclusion that your best bet is to wait for reinforcements. The empire is constantly expanding, and it’s only a matter of time before a garrison makes its way through here.

In the meantime… perhaps you can try a little infiltration?

However, a small voice in the back of your head tells you that perhaps infiltration isn’t the best idea. _Perhaps you should go back to the old woman back there,_ it says. _She might help you. In fact, she might further the plot and assist you in not making any stupid choices._

What an odd idea. Why are you even thinking about the plot? You don’t plan to start a garden.

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Speak to Old Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62859301)  
[Go forward with Infiltration Plan ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62859112)


	65. Talk to Old Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pet Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544538).

You stare at the woman, open-mouthed. She gives you a strange look. 

“If you keep making a face like that, an impling might just fly in,” she says. She takes a cup from next to her and holds it out to you. “Tea?”

Wordlessly, you take it. The liquid in it is hot and sweet, and you gulp it down, not caring that it burns your throat.

“Sit,” the woman says. You turn around — somehow, a chair has appeared behind you. 

You sit.

“Now,” the woman says. “I can see that you have traveled far.” She closes her eyes. “You come from a distant place… a distant _time…_ and you seek your way home… through many paths, some false, some true…”

You nod, dumbfounded. Part of your brain tells you that she’s probably profiling you based on the mud on your shoes, or your clothes, or something. Your instincts, however, tell you to shut up and listen.

“I see…” she mutters. “Chickens… dark wizards... “ she wrinkles her nose. “Cabbages? Hmmm… a prison cell… an attempt at thievery…” she narrows her eyes. “A _poor_ attempt at thievery.”

You clench your teeth, unable to retort. She closes her eyes once more, taking a swig from the cup next to her. “The truth that you seek is within your reach,” she says. “However, you may not want to hear it…”

“Truth?” you say. “What truth? Is it where I am? How I got here?”

The woman gives you a mysterious look. “I am not the one who can tell you,” she says. “That would remove all the tension we’ve built up to, wouldn’t it? This story could go a little further…”

“What?!”

She sighs. “Go to Reldo, in the Varrock Castle Library to the north. He shall tell you what you must know…”

She pauses. Then she opens her eyes. 

“That’s your cue,” she says. “Off you go. Shoo.”

Bewildered, you stand up. The dog trots to your side, wagging its tail happily. 

“Many choices lie ahead of you, Quintus,” she says. “I would hope you follow the right one.”

You shuffle outside of the tent, your head swimming. As you do you realize something — how did she know your name?

You shake your head. She’s an old woman, not the Sybil of Hallow. She’s probably trying to mess with you — and stopped as soon as she realized you weren’t pickpocketing. 

Still, it might not hurt to follow her advice. It’s more of an idea than you had, at least.

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Go to Reldo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64939957)  
[Do something else](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62859112)


	66. Continue (6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Wait for Ozan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59544082)

You keep holding each other, half-asleep, well until the stars fade and the early morning sun begins to turn the horizon a pale red. Then Ozan stirs, sitting up and watching it rise, and you join him. 

“Beautiful,” he says, in his own tongue. It’s somewhat unfamiliar — the closest thing you can think of is _beatus._ Sacred. Perhaps that’s not what he means. But you find yourself nodding in agreement anyway. 

On impulse, you lean towards him and kiss him softly on the temple. He lets out a happy sigh, letting his hand brush across your cheek and through your dusty hair. You wonder, embarrassedly, about when’s the last time you had a proper visit to a bath — one that isn’t a pond in the middle of a desert — but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

When daylight proper begins to hit the desert, Ozan stands up, offering a hand to you. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet with a single strong movement. 

“You go first,” he says, and you nod. You shimmy down the rope, your body aching from lying on a hard roof, and slip back into the house.

Your room, thankfully, has a wash-basin, and you do your best with it — while it isn’t the same as round in the _caldarium_ , it’ll have to do. Even so, the water is distressingly red and murky when you’re through. 

Sufficiently freshened, you make your way downstairs. Leela is at the table, sipping a strong-smelling drink out of a small cup as she reads an ancient, yellowing scroll. 

She gives you a cursory nod. “Ozan has gone to do some scouting,” she says. “We will meet him east of here. There is an old structure that may be of interest to you.”

You nod, a little miffed that he didn’t tell you goodbye. _Ah, well. I’ll see him again soon._

Breakfast is a subdued affair. There’s a pot of the strong-smelling dark liquid, which you give a taste — 

— and immediately regret, as it burns your tongue and floods your mouth with bitterness. You gag, spitting it out, and the shock of it makes you feel jittery and on edge. You think you hear Leela snort, but when you turn around her expression remains stoically fixated on the scroll in front of her. 

After about an hour, she shoves you a pack full of waterskins, and you both exit the little house, heading east towards the scorching sun. 

You say little as you make your way across the desert — a far contrast from the lively conversationalist Ozan was yesterday. _How ironic,_ you think. _The first person to speak my language in this godsforsaken place, and she chooses not to speak at all._

You struggle to keep pace with her, your legs slipping in the sand and your hands fumbling with the waterskin as you take infrequent sips from it. It’s like a forced march, but worse — you don’t stop for breaks, and she’s going far faster than you’re used to. 

As you stumble along, you scan the horizon for any sign of an end — Ozan, in particular. He’ll probably laugh at your disheveled state, and chastise Leela for letting you get so covered in sand…

You do pause, at one point, which you’re grateful for, as Leela crouches down and looks at something in the sand. She unearths a scrap of cloth, stained a dark and dirty brown, and gives it a long, hard stare, saying nothing.

You continue. The unforgiving sun beats down on you, and you’ll no doubt pay for it with doubly-burned skin later tonight. 

As you cross the river, you notice that Leela seems… tense. She keeps looking over her shoulder, her hand nearing the crossbow strapped to her back. 

Perhaps it’s the awful liquid from earlier. Perhaps it’s the heat. But something about the stretch of the empty desert in front of you sets you on edge. 

You keep walking. As you do, you see it: the hulking top of a triangular structure, wavering in the desert heat. 

You’ve heard of pyramids before — they’re used to bury dead kings, or something like that, and it involves unpleasantly squishy and pagan things with organs and moving bricks and swarms of insects — but this is the first time you’ve seen one in person. 

It’s a cracked and jutting thing, its stone blocks worn down by the wind and sand. What strikes you as odd are the four pillars surrounding it, the top of each one glinting with a strange light. 

Weird. It looks familiar. It’s magic, you’re sure of it — it wavers like a dark flame against the brilliant blue sky, blowing against the faint wind.

_In the streets of Senntisten, where no beggar would be there long, for the shadows crept and snatched with long claws from somewhere darker…._

You squint. This is Zarosian magic. The kind reserved for the upper echelons for the empire… for the Mah — 

Your thoughts are cut off by the sound of something snapping. An arrow buries itself in the sand by your feet, and you hear shouts around you. 

Leela yells something, and pulls the crossbow off of her back as you find yourself surrounded by several bow and sword-wielding men. She points towards the pyramid. 

“Run!”

You do, even as the sand gives way under your feet and you threaten to fall. You rush towards the building, reaching your arm out towards it, towards safety — 

And then you feel something hard collide with the back of your skull. You let out a cry as you fall to the ground, your vision swimming. You feel a rough cloth sack being dropped over your head, and everything fades to black. 

* * *

You open your eyes with a groan. Your whole head is throbbing, and your mouth tastes of glue, bitterness, and sand. 

You’re in a small cavern, it seems, surrounded by crates and boxes. It’s mercifully cool, which makes you believe you’re underground. Though it may be the throb of your head, you’re fairly sure you can hear the faith _tink tink tink_ of metal striking stone in the distance. 

You stand up, your bones creaking as you do. The crates seemed to be filled with broken pickaxes and broken headlamps — all useless. The single wooden door in the wall proves to be locked, and it’s too sturdy for you to force it. 

You’re out of options, it seems. You turn around with a sigh, resigned to your fate. 

As you do, you see a barrel. The lid is off, and it is empty.

Do you get in it?  
  
---  
[Get in Barrel ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542612#workskin)  
[Do not get in Barrel ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542330#workskin)


	67. Hide Here (With Catherina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to Gateway (With Catherina)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59545492).

Valerio's made a break for the temple gates. Catherina's uncertain, and glances at you for guidance... before making up her own mind, and chasing right after him. You're tempted to follow, and yet the sight -- the _smell_ \-- of Sister Anna's corpse refuses to clear from your mind. Whatever you do today, you're not going to let yourself end up like that.

You're not a coward. There's nothing wrong with wanting to stay alive.

There's a few tents around, any of which would make a decent hiding place: you dart into the smallest and clutch the flap shut. In moments, someone is trying to pull the entrance open -- a few good tugs is all it takes, and the desert sun floods inside. Your surge of fear is quickly quelled as your eyes re-adjust to the light: it's one of Valerio's musicians, unarmed. She ducks down into the small space alongside you, and her long fingers join you in clasping the tent door closed. Hers are far steadier than yours.

She's lain down her instrument by her side, safe in its own case. You wonder briefly if that might make it worth stealing -- got to make the most of this, right? -- but the thought is quickly replaced by a twinge of shame.

And yet another side to you is indignant about feeling any guilt whatsoever. Why shouldn't you take what you want, whenever you want? Gotta find something worth living for, even with people dying all around you.

_Dying._ Your mind jumps back to the sight of Sister Anna, of the scars that spanned her feet and the grotesque _absence_ of her face, and from there you jump to a hundred other battlefield injuries. Marcus with a spilling gash across his stomach, the seething arrow wound in Aria's arm, being a helpless spectator as your own blood was struck across the ground. You want to be sick, but with the musician hiding here with you... you hold your breath and count silently, and wait for the feeling to pass.

There are shouts outside -- you recognise Valerio's voice. Whatever he’s saying is incomprehensible at first, but you listen closely:

_"ELENA!"_ Ragged cries, past any hope of salvation.

That floods your mind with a wave of different, dizzying thoughts: _Elena_ killed in her own bed, Elena bleeding and maimed beyond recognition. Elena, who just yesterday was grumbling into her chopped cabbage. All the mundanities of life.

_"ELENA!"_ you hear again, the singer's voice scratched raw. Another stab of guilt hits you, wishing you'd gone up to comfort him, but you push it down and away. _Saving your own life. Nothing wrong with that._

"Elena?" mutters the musician hiding with you. You can't tell if she recognises the name or not -- but there's no sadness, only confusion.

You wait, as Valerio's cries die down, as the noises surrounding you fade to the flap of the tents in the breeze. Again, you're divided. You want to think that the storm has passed -- _and_ you know that silence rarely means anything good.

The musician makes the decision for you, making her own exit. Like a wight marching under necromantic command, you find yourself involuntarily following.

Catherina is half-carrying Valerio on his way back down the hillside -- it's a tragically comical sight, given how much taller he is. He's unhurt, but practically collapsed over her, and her arm is clasped around him in a close but haphazard embrace. One dancer from his band is following along, looking at the pair with worry. The drummer has joined them too -- it looks like he _wants_ to be the one helping Valerio, and he's certainly more well-built for it, but there's no shaking Catherina's determination.

As they approach, you watch Valerio guide her to one of the tents, gesturing to lay him down inside it. She does so, gently, trembling, and kneels by his side when she's done. You try to join her -- the first action that feels voluntary since you went to run and hide -- but she turns her head to look at you, and the scathing glare is enough to stop you where you stand.

You want to shout, to make her _know_ that there was nothing wrong with what you did. You'd seen what happened to Anna! Avoiding that fate, while she and Valerio leapt right into danger? All that meant was that you were the only one of them with any _sense._

You want to scream all this and more, right to her face, to both their faces. You _know_ they wouldn't understand a word, but would they anyway? Would _anyone_ understand?

And so, instead of fighting your case, instead of shouting nonsense at people who don't even care... you turn around and run right back to the temple. At least Abbess Benita still has some respect for you.  
  
---  
Run back to Benita (coming soon)


	68. Run to the Temple (With Catherina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to Gateway (With Catherina)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59545492).

Valerio and Catherina -- who've quickly become the two people you value most in this place -- are both bolting up the hill to the temple gates. You curse them silently for their attempts at heroism. Would they be so hasty if they'd seen Sister Anna's mutilated body yesterday?

Maybe they're fools for running headfirst into danger, but you'd be a fool not to follow them. You can't show them your cowardice so soon -- not without risking whatever fragile bond you've formed.

You dash after them as quickly as your stumpy legs can manage. The dancing woman from Valerio's band is running too, far more gracefully than you are; the others are staying behind, seemingly fixed to the spot. _Hide!_ you want to shout -- but who knows how they'd interpret it? They'll just have to figure it out on their own.

Valerio is the first to reach the open gate, but halts as if blocked by an invisible wall. You hear his desperate pleading with the priests inside, some of which turn their panicked commotion into frantic outrage at him. The dancer catches up not long later; half of them pointedly ignore her, and from the other she receives nothing but sneers.

You stop at the gate with the others, but Catherina makes her way back into the temple -- back home. It seems to trigger some instinctive reaction among the gathered priests: the crowd splits apart and away, not one person willing to be even within a few feet of her. Some throw active looks of disgust her way; some merely move with the others. You just barely see an older woman try to break rank and approach her, but a subtle shove from one of the others ensures she’s kept far back. No others step forward to support her.

Catherina retreats in stops and starts, arms crossed tightly in front of her. The wall of priests closes back off as she goes. Her head bowed, she looks up at you, trying to maintain steady eye contact... and, despite her best efforts to hide it from you, trying not to break into tears.

You stretch your hand out for her to hold, and she takes it, gripping like a vice. She joins the rest of you at the entrance, standing between you and Valerio. The battle lines are drawn, it seems: you cast a condemning glare into the crowd.

Valerio, having watched the whole spectacle, has given up on bargaining: he leans his full body weight on the entrance archway, slumped in his defeat. The dancer puts a pitying hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it away.

You hear Abbess Benita call from behind the priests blocking the courtyard; they part willingly for her. By her side is the leader of the choir, shuddering, uninjured but with a spray of blood staining her Saradominist robe.

Benita's face is fixed in a stony facade, though you swear you spot a flash of sympathy for those of you barred entry. Then, a measured expression of solemnity as she spreads her hands out towards the priests: she makes a saddened announcement, in which you understand nothing but one name --

_"ELENA!"_ Valerio cries, reaching one hand helplessly forward while grasping the archway with the other. His bare chest heaves with desperate breath, his face wrought with distress.

Benita regards him with a wary eye, though not harshly so.

Catherina edges closer to Valerio, taking his hand in hers: this gesture, he doesn't reject.

You watch as the Abbess continues her speech, sending waves of horror through those listening. You don't doubt that the truth of the murder -- the _two_ murders -- is now out in the open. Now you're watching all the reactions you had yesterday (and more) play out among those gathered... though you're finding it very hard to care about how _they_ feel.

Catherina, though, is gripping your hand and Valerio's harder than ever. You turn the gesture into a tight hug, letting her bury her face in your shoulder -- and letting you bury your face in hers.

You can’t help it -- you barely knew Elena, but it’s surreal thinking about how you were working for her just yesterday, watching her cook and listening to her gripe about her daily life. It was so damn _normal_ , and now… nothing is.

Valerio is shouting her name again, his voice hopeless beyond belief, and you feel the same pain you’ve felt watching a dozen wounded friends, a hundred battlefield injuries. But there’s no war being fought here. Who could be doing this?

It’s not long before Valerio loses the last of his resolve, almost collapsing -- Catherina lets go of you to catch him, and though she’s almost overwhelmed (especially given how much taller he is than her), she manages to prop him up anyway.

You notice that one of his musicians -- the sturdy drummer man -- has come up to the temple gates without you noticing. He looks to be much more capable of half-carrying him in the way she is, and the look he’s giving her makes it seem like he wants to, but she’s hobbling Valerio along the path out of sheer determination. He’s got no choice but to acquiesce.

The rest of you follow, making your way back to the camp.  
  
---  
Look after Valerio (coming soon)


	69. Hide Here (Without Catherina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to Gateway (Without Catherina)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59545375).

Valerio’s the one who severs the eye contact -- he turns and makes a break for the temple. You're tempted to follow, and yet the sight -- the _smell_ \-- of Sister Anna's corpse refuses to clear from your mind. Whatever you do today, you're not going to let yourself end up like that.

You're not a coward. There's nothing wrong with wanting to stay alive.

There's a few tents around, any of which would make a decent hiding place: you dart into the smallest and clutch the flap shut. In moments, someone is trying to pull the entrance open -- a few good tugs is all it takes, and the desert sun floods inside. Your surge of fear is quickly quelled as your eyes re-adjust to the light: it's one of Valerio's musicians, unarmed. She ducks down into the small space alongside you, and her long fingers join you in clasping the tent door closed. Hers are far steadier than yours.

She's lain down her instrument by her side, safe in its own case. You wonder briefly if that might make it worth stealing -- got to make the most of this, right? -- but the thought is quickly replaced by a twinge of shame.

And yet another side to you is indignant about feeling any guilt whatsoever. Why shouldn't you take what you want, whenever you want? Gotta find something worth living for, even with people dying all around you.

 _Dying._ Your mind jumps back to the sight of Sister Anna, of the scars that spanned her feet and the grotesque _absence_ of her face, and from there you jump to a hundred other battlefield injuries. Marcus with a spilling gash across his stomach, the seething arrow wound in Aria's arm, being a helpless spectator as your own blood was struck across the ground. You want to be sick, but with the musician hiding here with you... you hold your breath and count silently, and wait for the feeling to pass.

There are shouts outside -- you recognise Valerio's voice. Whatever he’s saying is incomprehensible at first, but you listen closely:

 _"ELENA!"_ Ragged cries, past any hope of salvation.

Elena?! You barely knew her, and yet it’s still almost too much to consider. _Elena_ killed in her own bed, Elena bleeding and maimed beyond recognition. Elena, who just yesterday was grumbling about your spilled soup. All the mundanities of life.

You can’t help but wonder how Catherina would feel, if she hadn’t already fled the temple. Your breath catches as you picture _her_ ending up like Anna did -- as much as you wish she hadn’t left, you feel she may well have just saved her own life.

But whoever was doing this, why would they target Catherina? For that matter, why Elena? Why Anna?

 _"ELENA!"_ you hear again, the singer's voice scratched raw. Another stab of guilt hits you, wishing you'd gone up to comfort him, but you push it down and away. _Saving your own life. Nothing wrong with that._

"Elena?" mutters the musician hiding with you. You can't tell if she recognises the name or not -- but there's no sadness, only confusion.

You wait, as Valerio's cries die down, as the noises surrounding you fade to the flap of the tents in the breeze. Again, you're divided. You want to think that the storm has passed -- _and_ you know that silence rarely means anything good.

The musician makes the decision for you, making her own exit. Like a wight marching under necromantic command, you find yourself involuntarily following.

Valerio is on his way back down the hillside, though not without help -- the sturdy drummer from his troupe is supporting him as he walks. He's unhurt, but half-collapsed, as if he’d be on the floor without his musician there to help. One dancer from his band is slowly padding along beside them, looking at Valerio with clear worry.

As they approach, you watch the drummer lay Valerio down in his tent, with far more gentleness than you’d expect from a man of his size. You hurry over and kneel down beside him, resting a soft hand on his chest. Valerio’s own hand comes up to meet yours, and you feel his rapid-but-slowing breaths, watching the rise and fall with each one.

You dearly regret not having been there for him. You hope you can make up for that mistake now.  
  
---  
[Look after Valerio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67869247)


	70. Run to the Temple (Without Catherina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to Gateway (Without Catherina)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59545375).

Valerio’s the one who severs the eye contact -- he turns and makes a break for the temple. You curse him silently for his attempt at heroism. Would he be so hasty if he’d seen what happened to Sister Anna yesterday?

Maybe he’s a fool for running headfirst into danger, but you'd be a fool not to follow him. You bonded with Catherina, and she ran away from you. The last thing you’re doing is risking that again.

You dash after him as quickly as your stumpy legs can manage. The dancing woman from Valerio's band is running too, far more gracefully than you are; the others are staying behind, seemingly fixed to the spot. _Hide!_ you want to shout -- but who knows how they'd interpret it? They'll just have to figure it out on their own.

Valerio is the first to reach the open gate, but halts as if blocked by an invisible wall. You hear his desperate pleading with the priests inside, some of which turn their panicked commotion into frantic outrage at him. The dancer catches up not long later; half of them pointedly ignore her, and from the other she receives nothing but sneers.

You stop at the gate with them, having gone just far enough to show Valerio your support. Here, and no further. Who knows what’s waiting beyond the crowd? The bitterly hostile crowd, too -- in case you’d forgotten about all their disgusting Saradominist moralising, the barely-veiled disgust you now face is more than enough to remind you.

The battle lines are drawn, it seems. After the moments you shared with Valerio, you know exactly which side you’re remaining on.

It doesn’t take long for Valerio to give up on bargaining: he leans his full body weight on the entrance archway, slumped in his defeat. The dancer puts a pitying hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it away.

You hear Abbess Benita call from behind the priests blocking the courtyard; they part willingly for her. By her side is the leader of the choir, shuddering, uninjured but with a spray of blood staining her Saradominist robe.

Benita's face is fixed in a stony facade, though you swear you spot a flash of sympathy for those of you barred entry. Then, a measured expression of solemnity as she spreads her hands out towards the priests: she makes a saddened announcement, in which you understand nothing but one name --

 _"ELENA!"_ Valerio cries, reaching one hand helplessly forward while grasping the archway with the other. His bare chest heaves with desperate breath, his face wrought with distress.

Benita regards him with a wary eye, though not harshly so. You suddenly wish you knew what they’d talked about earlier.

You come closer to Valerio, hoping that you might succeed where the dancer had failed: you hold your hand near his, close enough to tingle but not to touch. He takes the offer, seizing your hand like it’s the one solid thing in this world, and wraps his other arm tightly around you in a painful echo of the hug you shared just minutes ago. You bring a hand up to his head, weaving through the hair and stroking his scalp in comfort… 

And you remember the first night you saw death, when Adrianus had held you in the exact same way, an anchor when you’d had nothing else to hold onto. You were lucky to have him then. You dearly hope you can do the same for Valerio now.

It’s something you’re valuing more and more, as your brain unwittingly drags you back through the events of the previous day. How Sister Anna’s body was past recognition -- how Sister Elena’s is now almost certainly the same. The _stench_ that hit you in Anna’s room, feeling almost as if it’s just the same now. 

Valerio is shouting her name again, his voice hopeless beyond belief. You barely knew her, barely spoke to her, and yet can’t help but wonder how _he_ did. They’d known each other, you don’t doubt. But what could possibly merit _this_ strong a reaction from him?

It’s not long before Valerio loses the last of his resolve, almost collapsing onto you -- and you nearly collapse yourself, barely able to manage his weight. One of his musicians -- the sturdy drummer man -- has come by while you weren’t looking; he looks briefly at you as if to ask permission, and you nod, allowing him to take Valerio instead. 

The rest of you follow, making your way back to the camp.  
  
---  
[Look after Valerio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67869118)


	71. Take Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Wake Up (3)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59909644).

You snatch the book before Sir End can notice, quickly rifling through it. The knight lets out a shout, but doesn’t try to take it back. 

You flip through the pages, the scanning for the words you’re looking for. The language is a total mess — none of these words seem at all similar to each other — but it’s the only way you’ll be able to get some answers.

“Where…” _flip flip flip flip_ _flip flip_ “I?”

The knight sits down again, oddly calm. “Falador.”

You give him a hard look, and flip through the book again. _Fabric, Facet, Familiarization, FMod…_ Hm. It must be the name of the place.

“Falador,” you echo. “Where?”

“Asgarnia,” he says. “West of Burthorpe. North of Rimmington.”

A quick search confirms that _North_ and _West_ are directions, but it offers you no clarity on what those places he mentioned are. 

Oh well. Might as well orient yourself in the only way you know.

“Senntisten,” you say. “Where?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know.”

“ _Quid?!_ ” you sputter. “Senntisten…”

Is the jewel of the empire, of course. All roads lead towards it, and even a homebody of a Saradominist fool would know that. 

This must be some sort of joke. Or this fellow here must be exceptionally uninformed…

“Kharyrll,” you say. Maybe you’re on the outskirts of the empire…

“Never heard of it.”

You let out a frustrated groan. “Lassar?”

“No.”

“Paddewwa!” You say, exasperatedly. It’s a major trading hub, even a _schoolchild_ should know it…

“Sorry, no.”

You wring your hands in bewilderment. “Forthinry,” you say. It’s the equivalent of asking where the ocean is, but you’ll take _anything_ at this point.

His eyes light up with recognition. “Oh, that,” he says. “The Wilderness? It’s northeast of here.

There you go! Some direction, which puts you roughly in the vicinity of Lassar if you’re to judge. Granted, Forinthry is north of practically everything, but it’s better than what you had to go off of before.

Odd that he called it the Wilderness, though. The book here says that word translates to _uninhabited, inhospitable, uncultivated region._ Forthinry is none of those things — at least, not where the empire has its roots. Perhaps fertile grassland is more vicious than you thought…

“Why I here?” you say, changing the subject. “Under… arrest?”

“...No,” the knight says, seeming to consider his answer. “Sir Amik wants to ask you some questions.”

Why would _an_ _implement made of clay and hardened by heat_ want to question you? Perhaps it’s some nefarious torture method they've devised…

No matter. You’ll stay strong, for the sake of the empire, and keep her secrets safe.

Even, you think, as your skin prickles unpleasantly, it involves being baked alive in a giant porcelain container. 

* * *

So it continues; the knight seems to have procured another copy of _Infernus Stupidis,_ and studies it quite diligently throughout the afternoon. Dinner is a bowl of _ius_ that bears the name of ‘soup’ in the local language, accompanied by the unpleasant side of halting conversation. 

“How long I here?” you demand, between mouthfuls. Sir End shrugs. 

“As long as we need you here,” he replies.

“Why?”

“Sir Amik can tell you.”

You’re unsure as to how a piece of pottery can communicate the length of your particular predicament. Perhaps it’s some accursed Saradominist joke.

As you take another spoon of soup, he coughs, awkwardly. 

“Um…” he mumbles. “Are you… comfortable?”

You one-handedly flip through the book. _Cameo, celebrate, chinchompa… comfortable_. As your eyes scan the definition, you nearly choke on your soup. 

After narrowly avoiding vegetable-induced asphyxiation, you rack your brain for an answer. You’re pretty sure this is jail, not a _deversorium._ Why on earth would he be asking if it were to your liking?

It’s probably a trick. Might as well give it a test. 

“The blankets,” you say. “Too thin.”

He nods, slowly, and gets up. He disappears down the hallway for a moment, and you’re too racked with confusion to attempt any sort of escape.

He returns a moment later, a heavy blanket resting in his arms. He walks up to the cell and slips it through the bars, holding it there and giving you an expectant look. Bewildered, you take it.

“There,” he says. “Better?”

Numbly, you nod, and he grins. “Good,” he says. “Anything else?”

You’re about to try your luck and ask for some wine, when a heavy clanking from down the hall clatters into your thoughts. Sir End tenses, and stands bolt upright, ready and at attention. 

“It’s Sir Amik,” he says. “Be ready.”  
  
---  
[Panic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63210931)


	72. Do Not Get in the Barrel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue (6)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589534).

You get the distinct feeling that getting in the barrel will result in an unfortunate end, i.e. ending up in someone’s inventory, getting pushed down a hill and tossed about, ending up in a river and getting eaten by a dragon, etc. Nothing good will happen if you get in that barrel.

You attempt to find some other way out of the room. The most you can do is attempt to chip away at the walls with one of the broken pickaxes, which were made by someone known as  _ A. Morrisane. _

Whoever that is.

After half an hour of listless chipping, the door opens, revealing a man in iron chainmail, carrying a rather nasty-looking club.

“!!!!” he shouts at you. He flings a bundle at you, which turns out to be a stinking set of filthy robes, and a rusty pickaxe. 

“!!!!” he yells. Too terrified to do anything else you pull the robes on — as much as it makes you wince — and don’t resist as he grabs your arm and drags you out of the cave.

You blink in the blaring sun, your eyes assaulted by its harsh rays, and your ears bombarded with the sound of metal hitting stone — punctuated now and again by the crack of a whip, followed by a scream or groan.

As your vision clears, you find yourself in a desert mine. Chained men and women strike the group with mining implements, near-fainting with exhaustion, as several dozen guards keep a watchful eye. You feel a shove from behind you, and the guard accompanying you pushes you towards a patch of sandstone. 

“!!!!” he shouts, pointing at the pickaxe in your hand. 

At a loss for anything to do, you raise it, and let it strike the ground. It feels heavy in your hand — but not nearly heavy as the thought that you’re going to be stuck here forever.

Escape might be possible. But, considering the amount of guards around, probably not.

Oh well. This is your life now. And, come to think of it, tumbling around in a barrel doesn’t seem so bad now….

THE END

[ Try again? ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	73. Get in the Barrel

You get in the barrel like the little bitch you are.

It’s dark. And kind of boring.   
  
---  
[Be Wahisietel ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542738)


	74. Be Wahisietel

Eh? Who’s that? Never heard of the fellow. What an odd name. Better go with someone more familiar.

And human.  
  
---  
[Be Ali the Wise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542819)


	75. Be Ali the Wise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Ali The Wise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542738).

Your name is ALI THE WISE. You live in a perfectly normal house in Nardah, doing perfectly normal things, like preparing taxes and doing scribe work and researching an ancient, nigh-legendary race of all-powerful magic users from a bygone era.

Oh, and answering questions from far too many adventurers. But that’s probably because of the last bit.

On this fine Erysail morning, you’re working on restoring a particularly tricky bit of manuscript from the Third Age when you hear the door open, swinging with such a force that it slams into the opposite wall and sends a shower of powdered sandstone down on your work.

You wrinkle your nose, brushing the dust off of the paper.

“Nkuku,” you say, not looking up. “I’ve made it quite clear: I might be renting this house from you, but that doesn’t give you the right to barge in whenever you please —”

You look up. There’s a man standing there. He looks rather distressed. 

There’s also a woman standing next to him. She’s holding a rather nice crossbow.

“Ali,” the man says — you recognize him as the adventurer Ozan, who’s tended to flit about the town now and again — “You know the desert well, don’t you?”

“Passably,” you say, standing up from your desk. You neglect to tell him that most of your geographical knowledge is a few centuries old now, but, to be fair, not much has likely moved around since then. “Do you need a map?”

“We need information,” the woman says, stepping forward. “A companion of ours was taken by bandits near Jaldraocht. They were wearing robes that looked like these —”

She lays a strip of dirty brown cloth before you. You pick it up and inspect it, turning the coarse weave over in your fingers.

“I’ve seen this before,” you say, laying the cloth down. “During one of my expeditions, if I may recall correctly. They claimed to be traders from Pollnivneach, though they seemed to be carrying excavation equipment with them…”

The woman snaps her fingers. “Mining camp,” she mutters. “It’s just north of that blasted little town… I _knew_ there was something suspicious about them…”

She swiftly exits, and Ozan moves to follow her — but not before pausing before your desk.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any books on Infernal, would you?” he says. 

You’ve got quite a few, in fact, but you aren’t particularly inclined to lend one out to someone who visits Nardah as infrequently — and someone as famously inclined to thievery — as Ozan. Instead, you raise an eyebrow.

“Why do you ask?” you say, picking up your quill. “If you intend to dabble with some nonsense ritual, then you’d be better off asking a Zamorakian…”

“Not likely,” he says. “Our companion — the one Leela mentioned — erm. He only seems to speak Infernal.”

 _That_ makes you look up. “Only Infernal?” you echo. “Not just phrases? I’ve known some scholars to take to quoting old scripts and such… the old Burthorpe guard used to issue orders in it, I believe —” 

“Only Infernal,” Ozan says. “Er, are there any civilizations that speak it?”

“None that I know of,” you say, leaning back in your chair. _At least, none that are making themselves known._

“Hmmm. Ah, well,” Ozan says, shaking his head. “I’ll probably pick it up from Leela in any case. I mean, it can’t be that hard — _no dolor, no mereor,_ am I right?”

You internally wince at his pronunciation — not to mention the horrendous vocabulary choice and total lack of declension — but you keep this all to yourself.

Ozan departs, leaving you to a pile of dusty paperwork and your thoughts. Strange that there’s someone speaking fluent Infernal now — Gielinor’s probably not heard anyone utter a full sentence of it since the empire stood.

And for it to occur so soon after you picked up those odd anima readings from Kharid-et…

You sit bolt upright in your chair, then, as certain circumstantial facts weave themselves together in your head. Mother Mah, could it be…?

No. It couldn’t. Such a theory is so utterly extrapolative that you wouldn’t even put it in a children’s adventure story. You’re a man of _sense_ , after all. Or at least, you’ve established yourself to be one. Chasing after crackpot theories is not a productive use of your time, and it’s too likely to draw unwanted attention. 

However… 

It’s intriguing. Almost too intriguing. Circumstances or no, the fact that there’s a human Infernal speaker still alive is almost too compelling to not investigate further. 

Of course, assuming that this fellow is even human. The last true speakers of Infernal may be scattered to the winds, but even a breeze can uncover something wayward. And there have been talks of rumblings in the north…

You look down at your dusty paperwork. _Ah, to Freneskae with it._ It’s not likely that you’ll finish it anyways, not without getting interrupted by some wanderer looking for information about muspahs and mummies and organ preservation and such. Or Nkuku, peering in through the window. His obsession with the house unnerves you more than it should, for all you’ve seen. 

With a sigh, you gather up your scrolls and get ready to disembark, grabbing your traveling cloak and bag.

Then, after a moment’s thought, you fetch a couple of dusty waterskins, half-heartedly filling them with water from the washbasin. You don’t really need it, but it’s good to keep up pretenses.  
  
---  
[Continue being Wahi— er, Ali the Wise ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947446)  
[Be Quint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947338)


	76. Salvage "Soup"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Stay Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59217643).

Catherina surveys your handiwork. Your first creation as the temple chef is currently burbling redly away, a semi-solid swirling mass full of floating chunks of fruit flesh and curled green stems. Some of the other vegetables are cresting above the bubbling red swamp, and they don't look any happier about this situation than you are.

Wheels are turning in Catherina's brain. She's looking at the open grille of the oven, at the fire crackling inside it, and... at the space on top of it. What, is she planning to move the great big cooking pot on _top_ of the thing? There's not nearly enough room for that. It'll topple over in an instant, and then you'll be drowning in "soup" just like that one forlorn cabbage is.

No, looks like she has other ideas. These ideas seem to involve a _second_ cooking pot, one that actually does seem suited size-wise for the space on top of the oven. Despite being smaller, it looks pretty heavy in its own right, and takes some good both-handed lugging for her to bring it over: she tries lowering the thing in to scoop up a decent portion of the soup --

\-- and gets hit by searing hot droplets from a bursting bubble of red, which has her drop the smaller pot into the larger one and jump back, shrieking and shaking her hand rapidly. She runs to the basin and runs it under a steady stream of water.

That's probably what you should've done with the burns you got earlier, huh. You put your robe shirt aside and join her at the basin, positioning your hands under hers in the flowing water. There's something that feels nice about that, the two of you nursing your cooking wounds together. You share a little look with her, and she smiles.

After a point, she turns off the tap and heads back over to the large cooking pot; you follow. At no point did the fire in the oven go out, which means the fruits (and veg) of your labour have been steadily broiling away. Your "soup" currently contains:

  * A few dozen of the round red vegetables, now significantly less round on account of the heat, not to mention you having gone at them with a knife
  * A bunch of other vegetables, submerged miserably beneath the sheer volume of red
  * One (1) large metal pot, far too hot to safely retrieve, also being devoured by the all-consuming mass of (formerly round) red veg



Against all the odds, though, it still smells pretty good.

Catherina's got another plan. She runs to a wall-mounted rack from which various utensils are hanging (none of which are knives, so you didn't take much notice earlier on) and grabs a wooden ladle that's roughly as long as her entire upper body. Then she fetches another cooking pot -- somewhat smaller than the one that's now swimming in your "soup".

First, just for the sake of it, she prods the sinking cooking pot with the ladle.

Nothing interesting happens.

Fortunately, there's more to her plan than just that: she hefts the giant ladle into the frothy goop to transfer it to the smaller pot. Considerably more interesting things happen -- _successful_ ones, at that, with good portions of your "soup" now out of the unwieldy larger pot and into the more useful smaller one.

You interrupt her halfway through, motioning that you should be the one holding the pot while she takes ladle duty -- you shield your hands from the increasingly hot metal with the fabric of your robe shirt, and she grins at you as she continues. Lord, her smile is amazing.

Success! Between the two of you, a reasonable quantity of "soup" is sloshing near to the brim of the pot you're now struggling to hold. Not enough to feed a temple, but... it'll do, for the time being.

Catherina notices that it's becoming difficult to hold, and ducks round to the other end to help you carry it. You let one hand go so she can take over, but do so just a moment too soon, and...

Well, you're both lucky these robes are so thick, because while they're now absolutely splattered with red, they've also insulated you from the heat of the whatever-it-is-you-were-making. The rest of the floor is not so lucky, and currently looks like the aftermath of an explosion in a red paint factory. 

Yeah, you've basically given up on this now. The two of you tiptoe dance around the veg-contaminated floor, and you start hauling Elena's escape tunnel-concealing sacks of rocks aside. The stink of hot veg is beginning to get overwhelming -- time to get some fresh air.  
  
---  
Flee the Scene of the crime (coming soon)


	77. Speak to Old Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589207).

You take a deep breath. It’s an old woman, not the Pontifex Maximus. The worst she’d likely to do is offer you a horrid bowl of sweets from the last century.

Steeling yourself, you duck under the tent flap once more. The old woman is still sitting there, a cheerful, friendly smile on her face as she pets the dog next to her. 

You’ve never seen anything more terrifyingly infuriating in your life.

You stare at the woman, open-mouthed. She gives you a strange look. 

“If you keep making a face like that, an impling might just fly in,” she says. 

She takes a cup from next to her and holds it out to you. “Tea?”

You’re about to respond, when she suddenly scrutinizes the cup. “Lawks, it’s gone cold. Try not to muck about outside for so long next time.”

She puts down the cup, and produces a small container. “Fig sweet?”

Wordlessly, you take one. One bite and it cements your jaw shut. Ah, well. It’s not like you were expecting to do much talking in any case.

“Sit,” the woman says. You turn around — somehow, a chair has appeared behind you. 

You sit.

“Now,” the woman says. “I can see that you have traveled far.” She closes her eyes. “You come from a distant place… a distant _time…_ and you seek your way home… through many paths, some false, some true…”

You nod, dumbfounded. Part of your brain tells you that she’s probably profiling you based on the mud on your shoes, or your clothes, or something. Your instincts, however, tell you to shut up and listen.

“I see…” she mutters. “Chickens… dark wizards... “ She wrinkles her nose. “Cabbages? Hmmm… a prison cell… an attempt at thievery…” She narrows her eyes. “A _poor_ attempt at thievery. And…”

She gives you a rather dirty look. “Stalling yourself for considerably long periods in front of certain fortuneteller.” 

You clench your teeth, unable to retort; due, in part, to the fig sweet currently sticking to your teeth.

She closes her eyes once more, taking a swig from the cup next to her. “The truth that you seek is within your reach,” she says. “However, you may not want to hear it…”

She gives you another hard look. “Especially considering how you seem to like avoiding critical narrative points that would advance your character arc…”

You manage to wrench your teeth free this time, rubbing your jaw as your look to her incredulously. “What?” you sputter. “Truth? “What truth? Is it where I am? How I got here? And what do you mean by ‘character arc?”

The woman gives you a mysterious look. “I am not the one who can tell you,” she says. “That would remove all the tension we’ve built up to, wouldn’t it? This story could go a little further…”

“What?!”

She sighs. “Go to Reldo, in the Varrock Castle Library to the north. He shall tell you what you must know…”

She pauses. Then she opens her eyes. 

“That’s your cue,” she says. “Off you go. Shoo. Unless you want additional dialogue. But that takes time to come up with, you know, and I’m rather busy.”

Bewildered, you stand up. The dog trots to your side, wagging its tail happily. 

“Many choices lie ahead of you, Quintus,” she says. “I would hope you follow the right one.”

You shuffle outside of the tent, your head swimming. As you do you realize something — how did she know your name?

You shake your head. She’s an old woman, not the Sybil of Hallow. She’s probably trying to mess with you — and stopped as soon as she realized you weren’t pickpocketing. 

You consider if you should follow her advice. 

Then again, you really don’t think you have much of a choice.  
  
---  
[Follow advice from Wise, All-knowing Fortuneteller](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64939957)


	78. Go forward with Infiltration Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Leave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589207).

To Infernus with the old woman. The most you can do for the empire, here and now, would be to gather intel from your immediate surroundings. Once you’ve been picked up by a patrol, not only will you have a daring tale to tell, but valuable information. Why, information enough to bring this wretched place down from the inside out — ! 

You scan the area around you, and notice a building across from you, bearing a wooden sign with a crude picture of a pot. On the door there’s a sheaf of parchment, covered in scribbled words. 

Hmm. Perhaps it’s a storehouse of some kind? You walk up to the door and read the parchment over. 

_Associates desired._ You can recognize _that_ , at least. So they’re hiring. 

You snap your fingers. Working in a storehouse — one that possibly feeds their military — would be the perfect cover! If you work your way up the ranks, perhaps you’ll become trusted with more sensitive information... 

Giddy with glee, you tear the poster off the wall and march in. It’s a surprisingly small building for a storehouse — perhaps it’s an administrative office? — and head to the counter, behind which you can see an old man dusting a stack of strange metal boxes. The dog hovers just outside of the door, gently wagging its tail and watching you from where it sits. 

Puffing out your chest, you slam the parchment down on the counter, exuding an aura of helpfulness, trustworthiness, and employability. 

Apparently, this works, as the old man looks you up and down and wordlessly hands you a brown apron and a broom. 

Success! You have to stop yourself from grinning as you don the outfit and eagerly begin sweeping out the store. 

_Today, this store,_ you think viciously attacking a pile of dirt, _tomorrow, this street. And next week? This entire settlement…_

You look over to the sign outside again, just visible outside the window. Ha! Whatever it is, the fellows in charge of this ‘General Store’ won’t know what hit them! 

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	79. Awkwardly greet Elena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Investigate Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59888752).

Well, here she is. Seemingly devout Saradominist (and cabbage appreciator) Sister Elena, who just earlier was grumpily chopping vegetables for the priests, is now cavorting with a bunch of heathen musicians. You gotta admit, that’s a pretty impressive double life to be leading. Like a spy, but with less espionage and more shirtless singers.

You’d quite like a life like that. Preferably without having to pretend to be a Saradominist. As long as there are shirtless singers involved, you imagine you’ll be doing just fine and dandy.

Elena has clearly seen you, and is clearly pretending that she _hasn’t_. That doesn’t last long, not with the aforementioned shirtless singer pointing you out in the crowd — even the acknowledgement gives you a strange shiver, even in this heat.

You give them both a tiny, sheepish wave. Elena gives an awkward finger-twinkle back, while the singer gives a wholehearted nod and grin.

You budge about self-consciously where you sit, and suddenly — _oh._ That big sack of vegetables next to you. That big sack of vegetables, from Sister Elena's kitchen, shamelessly stolen as you made your escape.

Is it really her kitchen any more, though? You suppose she lost ownership of anything in there the moment she got sent away from the temple. Which means that, if anything, what you can do here is give them _back_ to her. Lord knows she'll make better use of them than you will.

Worth a shot. 

You get up, holding the sack out as a peace offering, opening it up to display the treasures within. You watch as Elena's eyes widen, then look to you with an earnest smile.

"????? ???," she says — and whatever it means, it's genuine and heartfelt.

The singer seems just as happy to see it. Full of joyous bombast, he claps you on the back (knocking the breath out of you in more ways than one) and grins down at you as he says something far too enthusiastic to comprehend.

You say a few words of gibberish, hoping that it conveys "I don't speak your language" without betraying any Infernal. Elena raises an eyebrow, but doesn't seem too surprised to hear that you really _can_ speak after all. You weren't the only one keeping secrets up in that temple.

"Ah," the singer replies, not sounding at all put off. Instead, he takes a different approach, putting a hand against his bare chest: "Valerio!"

"Quint," you say, doing the same. You gesture towards his newest dancer, still grateful for the vegetable delivery. "Elena," you say.

All of a sudden, Valerio's _bashful._ Turning his head down, smiling under the brim of his hat, flicking quick glances up at her. She does that same finger-twinkle wave right back, now with not a trace of awkwardness. 

Oh wow. They really have known each other a while, huh. You wonder how two people like this even met, let alone got past all their differences in their backgrounds.

And... you feel a trace of lingering sadness in wishing you had that yourself.

Elena hoists up the sack over her shoulder, over the shimmering satin frills on her shoulder, and heads into one of the tents. After some thorough rummaging, she emerges with a large pot in her other hand; something about this makes Valerio outright gasp. 

Time for another of the former Sister Elena's famous soups... in a very different setting to where you had your last.

* * *

The sun is setting, and the pot on the campfire has been very thoroughly scraped clean. The meal was delicious, of course — all the more for having been enjoyed in rowdy company, which somehow managed to include you even if you hadn't understood a word they said.

It doesn't take a common language to do your impressions of the people of the temple, and you can certainly understand the raucous laughter. No words required for Valerio to fling an arm around you; in the cooling evening, you relished the warmth of the fire and if his body next to you. And the glow of friendship by firelight, with a good soup warming your stomach...

You've experienced these things before — in the army, following your few victories. Not for a couple of years had things been like this, though. Everyone knew exactly what had been lost... and that it may never be regained.

And yet there's no loss here. These people live in joy, and what's more — they seem perfectly happy to have you live in it with them. You haven't been asked to leave or made to feel unwelcome, even as you've spent your time waiting for that surely inevitable point. Instead, you've got a tent flap being held open for you, and as you make your way inside, you can't help but wonder _why._

Is it pity? Does Elena feel sorry for you trying to make it outside the temple? If anything, she should hate you for getting her kicked out in the first place... though you might've been just the push she needed.

Maybe that's it. Maybe it'll wear off after a few weeks, once her new normal sets in, and she and Valerio will be their own insular, impenetrable couple. Not a trace of room for thinking of anyone like you.

The drummer man of the troupe is the one sharing a tent with you — he mumbles an amicable phrase, surely something like "goodnight", and crashes out to sleep. Effectively, you're on your own.

You could leave them behind, of course. Run away in the night and save them the trouble of ever getting tired of you.

Or...

... you could stay.

You _could._ Not for long, but from the look of these tents, they seem to move around a lot. You could journey right along with them, get their guided tour all around this strange land, and come home as soon as you encounter someone familiar. As long as you make yourself useful, you can avoid becoming unwelcome — or if you can't, you can make yourself too vital to kick out.

You think back on your night as you slowly drift into sleep. Good music, lively dancing, new friends — and not a shred of guilt. You're wasting no time with this. It's _all_ for the glory of the Empire...

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	80. Do What He Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to Market](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589126).

You wisely do what he’s telling you to.

The man beams. “Excellent! I’ll teleport you there right away.”

Before you can protest, wavering magic surrounds you, and you’re roughly pulled from your feet, lifted into the air, and then left to fall. As you do, your head hits something hard, and blackness surrounds you.

* * *

You wake up to the smell of grass, the sound of water, and something heavy on your chest.

You sit up. Doing so unceremoniously deposits cream-coloured cat sitting on your torso onto the ground; the creature gives you a fiercely dirty look, before washing its face and turning tail. 

You look around, rubbing your head. It seems you’ve knocked yourself out against the fountain sitting in the middle of this square; it burbles away rather cheerfully, despite the fact it’s left a rather sizeable lump on your skull.

It seems you’ve landed in a garden of sorts; lush grass curls under your body, filling your nose with the rich smell of vegetation. Four walls surround you, each one sporting a gate. 

The areas behind each gate seem to hold the four seasons; winter, spring, summer, and fall — though perhaps to the extremes you’ve only heard of in storybooks. Summer is more verdant than you’ve ever seen, even in Senntisten; autumn is burned bright ochre, while winter is stark white with snow.

You get to your feet, brushing away the loose blades of grass and cat hairs. Right. Get the fruit. Get out. Get home. Simple enough. 

You try each of the gates in turn; fall and summer seem to be locked, but winter and spring are fair game. 

Which door do you choose?  
  
---  
[Enter Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258598)  
[Enter Spring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258940)


	81. Do What He Says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go to Market](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589126).
> 
> (written half-and-half by fennfics and Chaos_Elemental)

Sensibly, of your own volition, you decide do what he says.

"I'll do what you say," you say.

The man beams, clearly pleased with your decision to do what he says. “Wonderful! Here, take this broomstick.”

You're momentarily confused, but then -- out of nowhere -- he's handing you a broomstick. You take it, and peer curiously at it, attempting to divine what this thing has to do with stealing fruit. Are you meant to be sweeping the floor in here first, or what?

“Go on,” he says. “Get on it.”

You nod dumbly, and straddle the thing. You... wait there for a few seconds, feeling rather foolish as you do so.

The man lets out a frustrated grunt. “Accursed thing, I knew that girl didn’t enchant it right…”

He gives the broomstick a mighty kick in the bristles. Suddenly, it bucks beneath you, rustling with unseen power. You cry out as it pulls upward, taking you skywards.

It’s a shocking turn of events, for sure, that you wouldn’t take nearly as much issue with if there weren’t a ceiling above you. You close your eyes….

* * *

You come to some sort of not-quite-landing, and immediately trip over sideways on the broom. Opening your eyes reveals that you're face to face a gently burbling fountain...

... into which you promptly empty the contents of your stomach, meagre as that may be.

After wiping your mouth, you take in your surroundings. Accompanied by the soft trickle of water, you realize that you’re standing on grass; the first grass, in fact, that you’ve felt beneath your feet since Kharid-et. The rich scent of flowers and vegetation fill your nose as you take in the oasis you’ve landed in.

It seems to be a garden, of sorts: square, centred on a gently-flowing fountain, and surrounded by ornately carved walls.

The sole inhabitant of this place, it seems, is the sand-colored cat currently sleeping next to the fountain. It lazily opens one eye and regards you with singular disdain, before rolling back over and ignoring you.

Ah, well. At least the cats here haven’t changed.

You scan the little square, taking note of the four gates in each one. Behind them, you see snippets of different landscapes; one green summer, another fresh and light spring; the third hides vibrant autumn, and the last holds pale winter. Strangely, the square feels as warm and pleasant as conservatorium on a sunny afternoon, yet snow gleams behind the gate.

Snow….

You’ve only ever heard of the stuff in books and accounts from other soldiers. You’re not even sure if that stuff is real — or even if you’d be able to tell it is. Regardless, you find yourself drawing nearer to it.

You kneel gently at the entrance to the gate, dipping a finger into the cold surface and feeling the crystals softly part at your entry. You may be fascinated, but really, it's quite irritating that you're doing this. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get the gardens perfectly tidied? If you insist on continuing like that, you'll force me to give the apprentice an additional shift on cleaning duty this week, and neither of us will be happy about that.

No, I think you've gone quite far enough.

Blithering idiot as you are, you have completely failed to notice me teleporting in behind you. Just as you failed to notice how the pristine marble setting of my fountain has now been covered in your disgusting spew, which is _another_ thing that'll have to be cleaned up.

You know, I expected it to be Osman who was snooping about in my garden. It's his broomstick, after all. I wouldn't quite call you _even more annoying_ than him... just annoying in a more uniquely pathetic way.

I'm really getting quite tired of you digging about in my fresh snow. I clear my throat behind you, rather sharply, and finally I've got your attention.

You turn around.

"Oh. Hello."

Infernal? That's not a language I hear every day -- not outside of petty little things like demon summonings, anyway. Far below me, of course.

"Young man, you do know you are trespassing on my property?" I state in your general direction.

"Oh," you stutter. You barely even put in the effort to feign surprise. "Sorry?"

I push slightly in at the fringes of your mind, then find myself wishing that I hadn't. For all your impotent fear, you somehow still appear to be _attracted_ to me. You're not an unattractive young man yourself, I'll grant, but your overwhelming aura of incompetence makes you somewhat painful to be around. I'm embarrassed, really.

I could easily keep you around for your moderately pleasing appearance, though, while curtailing your ability to interfere with my garden's pristine order. I could wipe your mind, though honestly, with the way you act, I'd be surprised if that hadn't happened to you already. Or I could control your mind, but frankly, that's far too much effort to go to for someone only as _moderately_ attractive as you.

Then I hit upon the perfect solution.

"Stop slouching, young man," I order you, and you more than willingly stand up straight for me. Your attraction makes it almost as if you're mind controlled already, with no additional effort from me -- and that suits my purposes quite perfectly.

"Strike a pose," I command. You're not quite sure how to interpret this, but you comply, puffing your chest out and tucking in your cute little behind. Good start, but that's not _quite_ what I want from you.

"No, no... rotate your torso... look at me... I need a sense of flirtatious playfulness in your eyes... crouch down, just slightly... no, not like _that..._ "

I won't fully control your mind here, but I will nudge you in the general direction of precisely what I want -- just for the sake of expediting this matter. As the final touch, I have you wink and blow me a kiss. Overkill? Perhaps, but I find it to be a rather cheeky bit of fun.

"Excellent," I say. "Hold that pose as firmly as you can."

You lovingly comply, oblivious to the ice crystals swirling up around your feet.

"Keep looking at me, no matter what," I instruct you. And you do so, as the ice begins to cling to your clothing and skin, as the hard, protective coating makes its way up your body.

Once you're fully encased, I survey the results: there's somewhat more tension in the muscles than I'd like, not to mention the trace of fear that's entered your gaze, but those are relatively minor details in the context of the finished piece.

I'll have the apprentice move you into the winter section, right next to the sq'irk tree. You'll accentuate the scenery just nicely.

You've even got me considering inviting Osman over, just for one last time. I imagine he could do with seeing my garden's newest conversation piece.

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	82. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Take Book](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133637).

You're more thankful than ever for the thicker blankets, because they're the best hiding place this holding cell's gonna give you. You make a surprisingly graceful dive underneath them and clutch them over your head for all they're worth, taking a large, semi-soupy gulp while you're at it.

You'd really rather _not_ be listening, and there's still not very much you can understand, but you can't help overhearing the two of them anyway. The sudden change in Sir End's voice is astronomical: now speaking with the same accent as every other knight you've encountered here, he's gone directly from 'sympathetic' to 'Saradominist', and you find yourself wishing you'd taken that clay tablet to run far, far away.

You can't keep falling for people's wiles like this. It's a dirty tactic they use, and you won't stand for it. You won't just sit back and let the hot people win.

In a disappointingly clipped tone, Sir End is now making his report: you hear "Stoke" a few times, as well as the word "prisoner" that you've now learnt... but then there's "Senntisten", "Kharyll", "Paddewwa". Horror dawns on you as you recall having mentioned them earlier, assuming the man would know them and instead giving away something he _didn't_ know. Beautiful names, but to hear them coming from an enemy's mouth...

You close your eyes. It blocks out the low level of light that gets through the blanket, but it still can't stop you hearing them talk.

Regardless, the blankets still muffle the sound to an extent where you can't properly catch very much else. You're not sure whether to be thankful for that or whether you should be listening more closely, like a good little spy... though admittedly, you're really not in the right mood to be paying attention to your impending doom. You're at least glad you didn't tell him any _real_ secrets, or you'd have heard him spilling the unmistakeable bile of betrayal -- as it is, though, there's probably nothing to spill the beans on rather than your boringly conventional blanket choice. Thank the Lord you held your tongue.

(If the Praetorians aren't immediately bustling to snap you up once you're home, you're going to make a formal complaint. It'd get ignored, of course, but isn't it always the thought that counts?)

Every so often, the other man puts forth his own questions for Sir End, and it's at least mildly heartening to hear him tailing off with uncertainty at the end of any which can't be answered (of which there seem to be many). Even so, though... some fleck of empathy in you just so happens to feel a little bad for him, royally messing this up right in front of his superior ceramic.

You're still perplexed by the "ceramic" thing. You've got all sorts of thoughts racing in your mind, and in spite of all the worries, one of thoughts still manages to be: _is that some kind of nickname? Some reference to their shiny white armour?_ You wouldn't doubt it.

You also have more important things to worry about. You draw that blanket a little further down over your ears.

Sir Amik's accent (Asgarnian, you suppose) is far, far stronger than Sir End's. You don't hear his voice very much at first, when he's merely making short approvals of whatever Sir End's got to say, but later on he starts making extensive comments of his own -- in a measured tone that you just can't read. The parlay between the knights continues up to a brief, heartstopping moment of silence, and then your hear Sir Amik:

"Quintus Stoke?"

Nope! No Quintus Stokes here, no sir. There's a coincidentally Quintus Stoke-shaped blanket here, as it just so happens, but believe me: that means absolutely nothing. Coincidences like this only happen once a lifetime, huh? The miraculously empty Quintus-shaped blanket... you'd honestly watch a play about that.

No. No need to check that, either. Please don't --

Sir Amik's pulled the blanket through the bars, easily overcoming your weak attempts to keep the thing on top of you. And so there you are, utterly exposed to the inescapable Saradominism pervading every inch of this place... as well as the two inescapable Saradominists making sure you keep right on being here.

Dammit.

You've heard of clay creatures being used in battle by the factions south of Kharid-et. You've never seen them, but all the same, you doubt they'd look like the knight standing just outside your cell. The shine of his armour is metal, not glazed pottery; underneath it, "Sir Amik" looks like a regularly fleshy human being.

An important one, too. He's nowhere near as rigid as Sir End has become: he seems oddly relaxed in his role, whatever it is. That's a kind of confidence you envy, no doubt.

He looks down at your prone form on the bed; the eye contact is steady, patient. You wonder how long that'll last.

"Quintus Stoke?"

Technically, even _this_ is questioning, isn't it? Granted, there's not much they can do with your name alone... though if they somehow didn't know Paddewwa, then somehow your name might manage to wipe out another few hundred of your compatriots.

So you say nothing. You say a whole bloody lot of nothing. You think this is exceedingly stoic and badass of you, that you're an enigmatic superspy who never cracks under pressure. You've also just scooted the entire length of your bed to go cower right on the end of it in the corner of your little holding cell.

Sir End unlocks the door haha oh lord oh no Sir Amik's entering and you're dead.

He comes in and _sits right next to you._ RIGHT THERE. You are barely an inch away from this imposing armour-plated ceramic, and Sir End is now blocking the door, and for all your general slipperiness, there's nothing that can get you out of here now.

_Almost_ nothing. Lord, you'd kill to chase another one of those weird lights -- to fly up and out of here, all the way back home. To your family in Kharyll, perhaps, or even right back to Kharid-et. You'd still be in a cell back there, but the cells of Kharid-et were at least _familiar._

"Quintus," Sir Amik says, his gentleness as thin as a glaze on pottery, concealing who knows how much malice and murderous intent. Oh, Lord...  
  
---  
[Faint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65274055)


	83. Take Tablet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Wake Up (3)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/59909644).

You wait no more than a split second, making sure your timing here is absolutely right. When Sir End's attention is fixed solely on the dropped utensil, with him bent over entirely in his white armour, you make a quick grab for the bag and — yes! — retrieve the tablet with only a little fumbling. You smash it down right next to you, against the fluffy surface of your bed — dammit, it's too soft to break against it — and now Sir End is looking up at you, lunging forward with despair on his face —

You crush the tablet, your hand doing most of the work, and _finally_ find yourself pulled away. You see Sir End's despondent look as you go, and feel just a shred of guilt...

... before ending up in a wide open town square, where four fountains spit forth from four corners, where market stalls are selling goods such as fur or rolled sheets of vellum, and a man (in impressive armour and a colourful cape, inexplicably followed by a strange fish in a floating bubble) sprints on past, in a hurry to who-knows-where.

You realise in horror that the knights almost certainly have more of those tablets. Here you are, in broad daylight, somewhere that could be swarming with knights in an _instant..._ and you know, with sickening dread, that your escape's not over yet.

Whoever the man in the armour is, he sure has the right idea. You run away right after him.

His path takes you through from the square to a large palace, yellow banners hanging down from its walls, its guards emblazoned with the same colour. Thankfully, he seems to largely avoid the guards, instead dashing to the right of the entrance: there, a single guard is sprinkling water on a patch of weed-covered soil. A tiny person in green clothes bumbles about alongside it.

You don't know how, but suddenly the man is wielding a hatchet — and while you feel an initial jolt of fear as he swings it near the guard, he instead seems to be aiming for the empty space above the soil patch. For some reason.

...

He continues chopping away at it for quite some time, intently focused on the thin air in front of him, cursing at it perhaps a little more loudly than he might have intended.

You have no idea what's going on.

Regardless, you approach the man, steering clear of the whopping great hatchet he's swinging about -- he seems to be stopping it at a certain point in front of him each time, but for all you know he could decide to swing it right into your neck. You've noticed that his armour (twisted, dark, and even glowing in certain places) is about as far away aesthetically from Sir End and his ilk as it possibly could be, and in your book, that makes this guy at least _relatively_ safe to talk to.

You give him a sheepish little wave. He looks at you in mild annoyance, still not ceasing his thin-air chop.

You open your mouth to speak, but what would you say? There's the matter of him understanding you in the first place, and beyond that, what's stopping him from diverting the course of his wickedly sharp hatchet if you annoy him?

(The witnesses, probably. That guard in particular is most likely not a good person to commit murder in front of.)

As it turns out, though, you don't actually have to say anything. The armoured man looks you up and down, at your shabby, unwashed self in prison rags, and -- stops his chopping to hand over a bulging leather pouch?! You take it, eyes wide, and jingle it just a little in your hand. Surely those have to be solid gold coins!

You look up to the man in awed thanks. Even after that, though, he seems to be considering something else: sure enough, you watch as several sparkling wooden logs appear in his arms, and he offers them out to you.

You have no idea what you'd do with those, but they look pretty cool and magical, and as "cool and magical" usually equates pretty well with "expensive", then sure, why not?

And so he offloads a ton of heavy magical logs onto you. You nod him a quick thanks from behind the towering stack before heading off away from the palace, in a different direction to where you just came.

(You make it just far enough away to be out of eyeshot before giving up on the logs, dropping them all over the ground.)

* * *

You've made it out of the city, at last. That should make you at least a little more safe, though putting some distance between yourself and those walls should make you safer still.

There are two clear paths onwards: a low wall up ahead of you that bounds a strangely charred-looking stretch of land, and on your right, what appears to be some kind of _taberna_. The sun is getting low in the sky, and while you're still managing adequately on the soup you had earlier, you'd certainly appreciate a place to stay the night.

But you're still a wanted man, and outside the bounds of the city, the _tabernae_ are probably the first place they'd look. Perhaps the forbidding landscape ahead is the better option... despite the warning signs stuck into the ground.

(Maybe you should actually pay attention to them... though there doesn't seem to be any _immediate_ danger up ahead...)  
  
---  
[Enter Taberna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277959)  
[Jump over Wall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277977)


	84. Enter Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Do What He Says](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258403).

The ice of winter hits you like a blast as you enter. The snow, densely packed under your feet, is treacherously slippery, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to keep your stance.

As you take in your surroundings, you realize something even worse.

Elementals. You’re just out of their sight, but they seem to be patrolling the ice-covered hedges with alarming efficiency. These are a far cry from the diminutive little servant-spirits you’ve seen conjured in Kharid-et. No, these are full-size, and packed with magic, by the looks of it; they’re icy as their surroundings, to boot, which means that whatever they hit you with won’t likely be pleasant. Taking one head-on will be a bad idea. Stealth will probably be your best option.

But… also…. 

The one patrolling the hedge along the wall is kind of cute. 

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Sneak Past Elemental](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258688)  
[Seduce Elemental](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258835)


	85. Sneak Past Elemental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Enter Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258598).

Summoning all your stealth abilities, you go to sneak past the elemental. 

As she turns, you see your perfect opportunity. You duck and dive, rolling past her like an acrobat. You quickly spring to your feet — there’s a nice gap in the hedge juuuuuuust there….

As you step towards it, though, an icy blast hits your back. You freeze — literally — as the spell stuns you, holding you in place as the elemental glides towards you.

Your skin prickles as the frost begins to take over, creeping up your limbs and turning them still as statues. You attempt to shout, but your jaw is locked by the tide of ice. 

As the magic freezes you over into a solid block, your last thoughts are: 

_ I always hated the cold. _

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	86. Seduce Elemental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Enter Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258598).

Puffing up your chest, you approach the glacial entity. 

“Hey there,” you say. “Are you ice? Because you’re bringing me to my knees.”

Even as you say this aloud, you want to groan. Ah, well. Might as well enjoy the last half a second before you’re turned into a bowl of _mellitus gelus._

To your surprise, however, the elemental turns and… _blushes_ at you? It’s a purplish kind of tinge to her cheeks, but it’s unmistakable.

Slowly, she floats up to you and whispers in your ear, her frosty breath stinging your cheek. She’s on duty, but she gets off at four. Wait for her in the garden, she says.

* * *

You retreat to the main square, dumbstruck. The cat is still there, and the look it gives you is irrevocably smug.

* * *

It turns out she has a place in the Land of Snow, which is a nice enough locale when you account for all the yetis. The first date goes rather well, and she asks you to stay the night.

One thing leads to another, and you end up getting a nice little villa on the mountain together. Her day job pays fairly well, and it comes with dental.

All in all, you reflect, it’s not a bad way to live your life.

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	87. Enter Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Do What He Says](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63258403).

Spring looks promising enough. The grass is light and springy, and the tree peeking over the wall looks like it has ripe-enough fruits to take.

You creep through the gate, silent as a mouse, noting how the soft grass muffles your footsteps.

You note the elementals drifting through the place. They seem to be far larger than the ones you’ve seen mages summon before; however, their movements seem repetitive, which means that you can probably get past them with the right timing.

You watch their paths for a few moments before getting a good idea of what their timings are like. When the right time comes, you crouch, ready, waiting… 

There! You sprint forth, triumphantly racing towards the little alcove in the hedge….

And trip on a divet in the turf.

You tumble forth, faceplanting in the soft soil and no doubt turning your face green from the grass stains. However, it’s no match for the red blush of defeat that creeps over you as you hear the elemental approach.

You look up. It doesn’t look very impressed. 

It waves its hands, and you feel your limbs feel strangely stiff. To your horror, little vines begin to creep up your arms, sprouting flowers as they go. Slowly, your vision becomes enveloped in green leaves as vegetation overtakes you, and you’re no longer able to move.

_ Oh well _ , your fading mind whispers.  _ I hope I’m a pretty rosebush, at least. _

THE END  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	88. Go with Valerio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue (5)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60246271).
> 
> Warnings for graphic violence (and also Language) from here on out.

As Catherina darts up the hillside after him, you find yourself locked on the spot -- this is _danger_ you're running into, and all your instincts are telling you to crawl into the nearest hole and hide.

You clench a fist, and take one big, deep breath.

You've known this man for less than a day, but in that time he's provided you with food, shelter and more love than you ever could have hoped for. _You_ , a lost, lonely soldier in enemy lands, a petty thief and prisoner. This man is inexplicable, even downright _foolish_ in his kindness, and yet...

The absolute least you can do for Valerio is be there for him now.

You rush up right behind Catherina -- who's known the man barely minutes, and hadn't even hesitated for a second. Bea is running after him as well, and she's doing so far more gracefully than you ever could.

Valerio himself seems to have stopped at the entrance to the temple -- it's wide open, but he's going no further. Bea and Catherina join him there, as do you, and...

The open courtyard of the temple is blocked by a human barricade: priests almost in formation, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in opposition to Valerio. A few seem to recognise you as you arrive, probably from having helped you after you fainted on their doorstep the night before last -- and from the barely-veiled snarls you get, you wonder if they might be regretting that.

You watch as Valerio, half-slumped against the gateway's edge, tries in despair to talk his way through. He may as well be talking to a sandstone wall. He's got one hand raised in a desperate pleading motion -- you rest a hand on the outstretched wrist, and he lowers it in gentle resignation. Once his hand is hanging at his side again, you find yourself almost unconsciously weaving your fingers into his. He grips you back, grateful.

Catherina gives Valerio a look -- you're not quite sure what's being said there, but there's definite concern -- and tries to walk forward. The reaction is immediate: they part not to let her through, but to recoil from her, as if leaping from a burning flame.

 _Oh, this is bullshit,_ you think.

Still holding Valerio's hand, you stride forward through the crowd, dragging him along with you. Bea joins you too, holding her head up high above their glares. Cries ring up among the priests -- _yeah, that's right, go cry about us filthy heathens stinking up your temple_ \-- but no one's about to do anything as heretical as lay a hand on you three, with your scandalously exposed flesh and, Lord forbid, _colourful_ clothing. 

You join Catherina, lost in the midst of this, and without shame, you move to take her hand too -- but she snatches it away, holding it up against her body as if for protection.

"Catherina," Valerio begs, wounded.

She utters something in disgust, then edges backwards to join her fellow priests -- only to find them still retreating from her. Now she's _truly_ lost. She darts her head one way and the other, between you, Valerio and the righteous Saradominists...

"Catherina," you say, reaching out a hand.

"No," she cries, then bolts forward -- she pushes past you, past the priests, and runs right out of the temple.

"Catherina!" 

It's Abbess Benita, emerging from a room at the back. The crowds part for her in reverence, heads lowered -- hiding almost embarrassed faces. She's reaching out a hand for where Catherina's just gone, and lowers it slowly of her own accord.

You notice that the Abbess has been accompanied by another priest, trembling and whimpering. At first, you mistake her robes for being more colourful than the rest... before realising that the splashes of red are from fresh blood.

Valerio notices a moment after you, and you feel his grip tighten to a vice around your hand. " _No,_ " he mouths, cold and pale.

Benita gives him a side glance, brow furrowed, lips pursed. Regardless, she confirms his suspicions with a slow, sad, nod.

"No!" he shouts, shoving through the crowd to reach the room from which she came. 

Bea follows him, and... well, you've come this far.  
  
---  
[Keep following Valerio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64629439#body)


	89. Be Ali the Wise (Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Ali the Wise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542819) or [Be Quint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947338).

You know quite damn well who you are. You’re a perfectly ordinary scholar going out on a perfectly normal trek to find a young man who apparently speaks the language of a long-dead empire, the name of which has not been utter out of fear and ignorance for nigh on a millenia.

As, of course, you are wont to do. 

You shield your eyes against the fairly pleasant sunshine of the desert. The two others — Ozan and Leela — seem to be arguing. 

“ — wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d bothered to think with your _brain,_ and not other appendages!” Leela spits, as she warily eyes the horizon with her crossbow in hand. 

“What was I supposed to do?” the one called Ozan retorts, throwing his hands up in the air. “Leave him to die in the streets? He’s practically a _kid_ , Leela. I was in his place just a few years ago. And he’s got it worse, he doesn’t even speak the language.”

“Oh, and you drag him over to _me_ and make him my problem?”

“It’s not every day you come across someone who speaks entirely Infernal.”

“Unless they’re a damn Zamorakian!”

“Even if he were, he wouldn’t be able to do much. He’s absolutely harmless. Lost and scared, if anything.”

Leela snorts. “Stop making excuses for him. You’re getting soft on him, aren’t you? Don’t think I didn’t see him sneaking out to join you on the roof.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Ah. So there are _Implications._ Lord adjacent, what have you gotten yourself into?

“ — and he’s practically a lunatic, on top of that,” Leela continues, kicking sand as she walks. “Did you hear him babbling about all those names from the old empire? It was though he actually thought he’d lived in it!”

You continue your easy pace through the dunes — walking does wonders for the thoughts, after all — though the woman’s passing quip nearly makes you give pause. A strange sensation prickles across your skin — your outer skin, at least — as you carefully turn your thoughts over in your head. 

_The Kharid-et readings… the tongue of the empire… lost and confused…_

Your eyes widen. Could it be? After all this time? One of your own —?

“We’re here,” Leela says, nocking her crossbow. The mining camp wavers in the heat just to the east of you, hiding the banks of the Elid and the muspah statue you’d only recently unearthed. The sound of pickaxes striking rock carries over the hot air, and you see in the corner of your eye that Ozan shudders. 

“Ok,” he says. “We’re fairly sure that he’s in there. How do we get in?”

Leela scans the entrance. “There are too many guards for a straight-on attack. An ambush, perhaps, we can do, unless there’s some other way to sneak in…

You consider the crossroads of choices that lay before you, before making a decision yourself.   
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648404)


	90. Be Quint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Ali the Wise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62542819).

Your name is QUINTUS AURELIUS STOKE. You are currently situated in a BARREL.

It’s rather dark in here.  
  
---  
[Enough of that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947446)


	91. Hide Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue (5)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60246271).

As much as it pains you, you know you can't follow him. You knew as soon as you left the temple that you'd never pass its threshold again -- except as a conqueror, of course. Even without that, you're still not about to head willingly into possible danger. Having spent your whole adult life as a soldier, that instinct's the only thing that's kept you alive, and you're hardly about to start disobeying it now.

Catherina's set right off after him, of course. In all your battlefield experience, you know Saradominists rush to be heroes without thinking. Bea seems to be following him as well, but you're relieved to see the rest of the troupe staying here. They've known him far longer than you have, so it's gotta be worse if _they_ ignore his obvious distress -- right?

_Oh, who cares,_ you admonish yourself. _Stop thinking, start acting._ You scramble into the nearest tent to hide, giving only a cursory gesture to the others to do the same.

You hold the tent flaps closed once you're there -- only for someone to fling them open in front of you, far outmatching your feeble strength. Some of the panic fades as soon as you realise it's Emmeline; you budge aside to allow her (and her instrument case) to squeeze in there beside you. Both of you hold the flap closed together; the defence is far from impenetrable, but two people against some unspecified cause of screaming has got to be better than one. You cower there for a minute or so, trying to look like you're ready to ambush whatever might fling the flaps open next (and not just, you know, run away screaming).

There's another scream, this time clearly Valerio's, echoing from up the hillside. You can barely make it out:

_"ELENA!"_

"Elena?" you wonder out loud. Not a name you've heard before.

You look to Emmeline in the darkness of the tent, and repeat it as a question. "Elena?"

"Elena," she states, self-evidently. She shrugs -- no recognition.

It's not long before Valerio's shouting the name out again. "ELENA!" he cries, his voice sounding rather scratchy.

"Elena," you confirm, nudging Emmeline.

"Elena," she echoes, and you swear you can see her smirking in the darkness.

"Elenaaaaa," you softly pretend to scream. Now she's got the giggles -- and they quickly spread to you...

... and while you're caught off guard, someone flings the tent flaps open.  
  
---  
[Run!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64629343)


	92. Check out Buildings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Venture into Forest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278001).

Well, if nothing else, your curiosity's been piqued. You may as well check them out, see whatever's been preoccupying this person for so long.

Tiredly, you trudge your way along the path to your right: soon enough, you're at the little building you saw. Inside is a strange metal mechanism, with a long, outstretched bar just begging to be pulled down.

You have no idea what pulling this will do — if anything. Presumably though, since there's nothing else around, it's what the person you just saw was doing. They sure seemed to still be alive, so it can't be particularly dangerous...  
  
---  
[Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278229)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278214)


	93. Keep going into Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Venture into Forest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278001).

If this person's given up on it, it's probably just a waste of time.

You keep moving through the dead forest, oblivious to whatever secrets those buildings might have held.  
  
---  
Continue (coming soon)


	94. Venture into Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Jump over Wall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277977).

This is likely to be the colder of the two possible paths, but you're not entirely sure that the heat of the "river" is a wise one to be sticking near to. The forest it is.

The blackened trunks seem a lot less close together once you approach, and the task of navigating between them is relatively easy. You trace a path through the dead forest, and —

— you freeze, catching sight of the first person you've seen in an hour. They're running. Running from what?

You slip behind one of the trees, tightening the grip on your coin pouch, and watch as subtly as you can.

The person running is out of sight soon, but it's not long before you catch another glimpse, this time as they run in the opposite direction. For whatever reason, they're going right back to whence they came.

You continue watching, less now from self-preservation as from curiosity. Sure enough, once they're out of sight in that direction, you spot them running right back again soon after.

 _What is this?_ you wonder. _Some sort of training exercise?_

They do a few more runs back and forth before pausing in the middle of the path, leaning on a tree and catching their breath. At this point, you can see that they're unarmed and that they're unlikely to be any threat to you, so you risk breaking your cover and approaching them.

They almost jump out of their skin as they see you. It seems they deduce you as not being a threat, though, because soon they're gladly yammering on at you, presumably about whatever they've just been up to. You're surprised they can even talk that much, as clearly out of breath as they are. They point along the path through the forest, both to the left and to the right of them -- looking both ways, you can just about see tiny ruined buildings down the path on either side.

You're not responding to any of this, since you can't understand a word of it, but the person doesn't seem to care: they shrug dramatically, and instead of heading back to one of the buildings, set off through the forest ahead of you. Whatever this is, it looks like they're done with it.

You wait for them to leave, then take another glance at each of the buildings. Is it worth checking them out, or should you just carry on through the forest like this person just did?  
  
---  
[Check out Buildings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278076)  
[Keep going into Forest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278046)


	95. Jump over Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see a warning sign stuck in the ground: character death up ahead! (Maybe.)
> 
> Continued from [Take Tablet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63210814).

It's not particularly high, but you make a running jump just in case; you make it over, only half-tripping over your own limbs on the other side.

The place isn't completely depopulated, you notice. There are... giant rats, oddly enough, and you're glad none of them seem to be taking an interest in you. As far as human life goes, though, there's a man with fancy hair and an official-looking sash standing next to a large brazier. He looks reputable enough. Yeah, this place can't be too bad, can it?

You ignore the concerned look he gives you, and hurry onward.

Each step you take, you feel just a little bit chillier... and just a little bit sillier for having made this choice in the first place, especially when you could be basking in the social and literal warmth of a _taberna_ right now. But you press on, because there's no way in Infernus you're turning back now — you've made your choice, and you're sticking to it.

You carry on walking until the sounds of revelry from the _taberna_ have faded into the distance.

* * *

You're becoming weary after some indefinite time spent walking. Presumably, you're well out of range of any search party by now; you could do with a place to rest for the night.

The darkness of this strange land is broken solely by the orange glow from an oozing, bubbling "river". You feel heat emanating from it, and while it's nice to have a reprieve from the cold, you get the feeling you shouldn't be venturing much closer.

Across the river, you can see the charred ruins of some small building. That could be a decent place to take shelter, and with the "river" ringing almost all the way around it, you imagine it'd at least be warm. You'd have to loop back around to get to the narrow land entrance, though, and that'd involve getting awfully close to the heat of that "river".

Other than that, the "river" seems to block off a lot of the path ahead of you. Your other option is to make your way through a dense forest of dead trees to your left, and... you swear you can hear footsteps over there...  
  
---  
[Investigate Building](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64939345)  
[Venture into Forest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278001)


	96. Enter Taberna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Take Tablet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63210814).

Your stomach is getting the better of you. You take a right to the entrance of the _taberna_ , suddenly conscious of the bag of coins still jingling in your hand. You could do with somewhere less conspicuous to keep them... especially in a place as noisy as this.

Above the door, a sign of a happy hog swings in the slight breeze. The smells of freshly-cooked meals waft towards you, and you know you've made the right choice. You hear laughter and rolling dice. You're not sure how much of that you'd be able to partake in, but even being surrounded by it might make you feel better.

A taste of home, before everyone's morale went down the drain.

You venture inside: past a small lobby is a candlelit area, crowded and bustling with life. You keep your coin pouch close to your chest, concealing it with your arm to whatever extent you can, and shove your way through to the bar itself. A bartender, after dealing with a rather pushy-looking warrior, comes up to take your order. He seems to be sweating an awful lot; working in a place like this, that's no surprise.

He says something incomprehensible, but you're pretty sure you can work it out from the context clues: you mime a plate of food and a mug of beer in his direction, the bag of coins still clutched in one hand as you do so. His eyes take on a glint as he watches you, and now his focus is firmly on your newfound wealth.

"??? ??????? ??," he tells you.

You hope your expression makes your confusion clear.

The man sighs, and brings both of his hands up — he flashes all of his ten fingers at you, and does so once, twice... nineteen, _twenty_ times?

All that adds up to two hundred, right? Two hundred gold coins for a drink and a meal? That can't be right, otherwise everyone around here would be carrying coin bags even bigger than yours.

Is he lying because you're rich now? Yeah, you're definitely getting scammed here.

You shake your head as definitively as you can, then lean over the counter, putting your elbows down on it (which is a bit of a reach, given how short you are). Keeping one hand _firmly_ on the coin bag, you use your other hand to signal.

Five, ten, fifteen, _twenty_ coins. And no more.

The man glares at you, but goes along with it. Maybe you've still overpaid for what you're getting, but with the sheer quantity of coins jangling around in your pouch, you imagine you'd be fine with losing twenty.

The man grabs a clear container, and fiddles with some protrusion on a strange machine; while he's doing that, you notice above him that several black boards have letters and numbers on them, written up in scrapes of white. _Huh,_ you think. _Kinda like wax tablets, I guess._ You make a mental note, just in case enemy writing techniques ever come up during your debrief.

The largest number on there is 50, accompanied by an arrow pointing upstairs; presumably, that's the price for a night in one of the rooms. Other than that, none of the prices seem to be higher than 10.

Well, you may still have overpaid, but at least it wasn't as astronomical as it could have been.

"Hey," the man says.

You bring your attention back down in front of you, where you're very happy to see an ale and a bowl of stew. You nod your thanks, count out twenty gold pieces in return, then attempt to wrangle your dinner into your hands while still holding the coin pouch. You just about manage it, figuring something out with the bag tucked into the crook of your arm — relatively concealed in the process, you hope.

Amid all the confusion of the _taberna_ , you can make out a few places where you could sit down. There's a free spot at a table where dice is being played; your luck has always been rotten at dice, but you could do with the entertainment. There's another table that sits unoccupied, thank the Lord -- that'd be the place to go if you just want a quiet night.

But a third sight intrigues you. A group of combatants are gathered around a table, talking rowdily, making no effort to hide their weapons... one of which is a staff, proudly topped with a symbol of Zaros.

Brazenly displaying symbols of your Lord, so deep into enemy territory? You wonder: is this even enemy territory at all...?  
  
---  
[Play Dice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/70562379)  
Sit at Empty Table (coming soon)  
Investigate Zaros Symbol (coming soon)


	97. Give up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Check out Buildings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278076).

Whatever this is, it's probably pointless.

You cease this endeavour immediately, instead turning to carry on through the forest.  
  
---  
Continue (coming soon)


	98. Pull Switch B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349).

Using both hands, you tug the metal bar downwards until it settles into its final position.

You can barely hear anything -- the rustle of dead branches swaying in the breeze, at most. You're _fairly_ sure that's what you just heard, at least... but really, it could be anything.

Time to return. You venture back to the first switch you pulled, where you are entirely unsurprised to see it in the upright position. And what are you going to do about that?  
  
---  
[Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349)  
Give up


	99. Pull Switch A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278676).

You know the drill. You lower the bar, hearing the ancient mechanisms squeak just slightly as you go.

Nothing seems to happen this time... or perhaps you're just not observant enough. Regardless, you turn tail and set off back for the other building.

On your arrival, and to no surprise, the switch has returned to its unpulled position. You alone have the power to set that right.  
  
---  
[Pull Switch B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278514)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278289)


	100. Give up (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from... somewhere in this mess of switch-pulling. Let's say [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349)

Okay. That's enough.

Far more than enough, actually. Why did you even try that in the first place? What did you think you would accomplish?

You wander wearily into the forest ahead, chastising yourself all the way.  
  
---  
Continue (coming soon)


	101. Pull Switch B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278229).

You hear a click below you. What could that have been?

Intrigued, you set off back to the first switch. Once there, you notice that the bar seems to have returned to its raised position — whether it did so of its own accord or by someone else's actions, you're not certain.

Regardless, there's only one thing to do now...  
  
---  
[Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278214)


	102. Pull Switch A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Check out Buildings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278076).

You begin what you are sure will be an epic journey!

You pull the switch all the way down, and it stays in its lowered position.

Nothing seems to happen... but that's only as far as you can see. For all you know, something could have happened ten, a hundred, a thousand miles away -- and you would be the sole cause.

Now that you're done with this building, it's probably about time to check out the other. You exit the building — insofar as this tiny ruin can feasibly be called a 'building' — and set off in the opposite direction, heading for the equivalent at the opposite end of the path.

At the end of your short walk is a similar-looking ruin holding an identical-looking switch. 

You know what to do.  
  
---  
[Pull Switch B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278265)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278214)


	103. Pull Switch A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278676).

You reach for the switch. It yearns for its lover's embrace.

But alas! Before you can make contact with its cool, smooth surface, someone with a firebreathing lizard comes along and burns you alive.

You welcome the sweet release of death.  
  
---  
[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	104. Pull Switch B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278592).

You pull Switch B, as is only right and proper. This is your role in life, and it must be fulfilled.

You jump at the sound of a slight shifting in the trees. A few seconds pass, though, and nothing seems to be happening. Sounds like the coast is clear.

Wary regardless, you venture back to the very first switch, the place where you began this journey. As you walk, you reflect on what you've experienced. Forget Sir End, or that one man who gave you a bunch of money — Switch A and Switch B may well have become your best friends in this odd new world so far.

As you reach the building once more, Switch A greets you like an old friend. Tell me, Quintus. Will you shake its hand?  
  
---  
[P](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278751)[ull Swi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349)[tch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278751)[ A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278289)


	105. Pull Switch A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278514).

Of course. What else?

Dutifully, you pull down the switch, looking at it with some sense of satisfaction once your job is done.

Of course, your job's not _entirely_ done. You still have to head back to the other switch and pull that one down as well: accepting this fate, you go back in that direction, hands itching for a switching.

The switch is there, as ever. It didn't disappear when you were gone or anything. It did, however, reset itself to the initial position. Or did someone else do the job of resetting it while you weren't looking?

You take a look around you, but as ever, there seems to be no one else in sight. That's probably good, all things considered. Nerves calmed at least somewhat, you...  
  
---  
[Pull Switch B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278676)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278289)


	106. Pull Switch B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278349).

Using both hands, you tug the metal bar downwards until it settles into its final position.

You can barely hear anything — the rustle of dead branches swaying in the breeze, at most. You're _fairly_ sure that's what you just heard, at least... but really, it could be anything.

Time to return. You venture back to the first switch you pulled, where you are entirely unsurprised to see it in the upright position. And what are you going to do about that?  
  
---  
[Pull Switch A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278592)  
[Give up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64278289)


	107. Keep following Valerio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Go with Valerio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947239).
> 
> Got some bloody bits up ahead. Have fun.

Valerio's tearing his way through the rooms of the temple. For someone who wasn't allowed in, he sure seems to know his way around.

He's like a man possessed. He jerks to a halt in each room, his eyes flicking around in a manic search for someone or something, before carrying on right through to the next, barely a halt in his desperate momentum. It's a challenge to keep up with him — Bea's managing much better than you are, but even she struggles to keep the pace.

For just a moment, you see her give you a look of worried dread as the two of you continue your pursuit.

Through the dining hall, where you had a single breakfast with the sisters before thinking you could leave this place forever. You watch Valerio almost stumble on one of the benches before racing past it, unaffected; you clumsily make your way after him, trying not to trip yourself over entirely.

The next room — some sort of workshop, full of bits and pieces and cogs and mechanisms. It's the sort of thing you'd be taking notes on for the higher-ups if not for Valerio's continued frantic search. He seems to skip this room entirely, though, instead leaping down a set of stairs —

"NO!" you hear from him, echoing up the stone staircase, surely for the whole temple to hear.

Bea's stopped at the top stair. She tries to hold you back, but you wrestle past her and force your way down after him.

You make it a few steps down, and...

... can't move any further. There's a stink of blood and wine that holds you in place like a binding spell. It's dark down there, but your eyes are adjusting to the low light — Valerio's now bent over sobbing, kneeling over a shadowed figure on the ground.

You've seen friends of yours looking just like that — disarmed, their armour useless. You couldn't tell if they'd already died or were just waiting for the end to come. Worse still were the ones for whom death refused to be the end, who you'd fight alongside in battle the next day in the helpless knowledge that it wasn't really them.

The woman on the floor has the same lifeless pallor, the same stench as your lifeless "compatriots". You want to turn back, but... Valerio's there, and in an even worse state than you are.

You press on.

The stink and the sight keep pushing you back like a solid wall, but _still_ you proceed, having to force every footstep. It's as if hours have passed by the time you're level with him, and yet there you are regardless: you start to kneel down beside him, then reflexively recoil on realising you've dipped your knees in blood. You stumble back, then settle on an awkward crouch instead, disgust roiling in your stomach.

Even accounting for the language barrier, Valerio's mumblings are incoherent: you can't make out a single discernible word. His life, his vigour, his force of will are all dissolving into uncontrollable tears that roll to the floor and mingle with the pooling blood — he's mired in it, but seems almost oblivious to that fact.

"Valerio?" you ask him. Just like his inexplicable catatonia this morning, there's no way to tell if this is even getting through to him; you rest a hand on his back, as a more solid form of comfort. An attempt at it, anyway.

What do you do? What _can_ you do? You stay here, by his side, as he sobs onto some stranger's corpse, and that's...

That's not all you can do.

It's definitely some form of blasphemy to pray to Zaros in the middle of a Saradominist temple, but if anything, that only makes you more determined to do so. There's nothing around for you to offer up... though you imagine the corpse could probably kind of count as a sacrifice, you realise with some grim amusement. But no — it'd be even worse for whoever this priest woman is if you were to offer her soul to Zaros. No, you'd be doing her _far_ more harm than good — and you owe Valerio better than that.

And so, on the strength of your soul's tiny voice alone, you begin a prayer. It's an ancient prayer to comfort a loved one, one that you've known by heart since your parents whispered it over you as a child. You were a sickly kid, and you felt as though this prayer saved your life more than once.

For all Valerio's done for you, you'll happily save his soul now.

Your prayer finishes. Valerio's tears seem to be drying up. You raise your bowed head and stand, and — shakily, warily — he follows suit. Only then does he notice the blood coating his legs. That almost has him collapsing again, but you're there to catch him — he almost topples you over, but you prop him up and keep him somewhat steady.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, and it serves as support both for you and for him. The two of you turn to make the hundred-mile journey back upstairs.  
  
---  
Continue, with Valerio (coming soon) 


	108. Run!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Hide Somewhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947590).

Instinct kicks in, and you scramble away as soon as daylight hits. That means leaving Emmeline behind — but so be it.

You only catch a glimpse of your potential assailant's legs — not nearly enough to identify them. You don't need to, don't _want_ to. No matter.

There's a cliffside ahead, shallow enough to clamber down —

"QUINT!"

Andrea's voice, heavy and rough. You turn, and oh, of _course..._ he was the one who'd opened the tent flaps, probably to let you know they were back.

You feel like a fool. Worse, you feel like a _coward._ What an impression to make on your new friends.

What kind of friend _are_ you to them? What can you possibly offer these people? If you're skittering away like a frightened bug whatever chance you get...

Valerio's lying on his mat, and Catherina's attending to him personally. Of course — she ran right off after him, was there for him all through whatever emotional torment he had in store, and she's still looking after him even now. The perfect Saradominist, naturally. Selfless and self-sacrificing in all the ways you aren't.

She shoots you a glare as you stand sheepishly at the cliffside, and _that's_ the final straw.

You can't do this any more. You've had some good times — some _wonderful_ times with these people, but every moment you spend around them will remind you how unworthy you are. You disappoint them, and will only continue to do so. May as well cut it off here.

You haul a leg over the cliffside, finding a relatively solid foothold down below. It's not an easy climb, and you half-slide your way down, but you make it on the other side regardless.

Some of them shout after you, but you'll do yourself no good to listen. There's no going back now.  
  
---  
[Continue, alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65646934)


	109. Investigate Building

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Jump over Wall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277977).

Dark, spooky forest or bright, warm "river"? Maybe a bit _too_ warm, sure, but it can't be much worse than the cells at Kharid-et.

You get a closer look at the "river" as you come near — it's hard to look at, but it looks oddly like liquified embers of a campfire. It oozes slowly along, a host of unwelcoming sounds welcoming you as it goes: a disconcerting glorping and splashing greets you. 

Wait, did some of it just —

You duck, just in time. Intense, radiating heat shoots over your head, and you turn your head to see a lump of glowing orange crash into the ground. You stare at it, dumbfoundedly watching as it slowly cools into rock.

What in Infernus...?!

As quickly as you can, you loop around the "river" into the opening of the small, round peninsula that holds the ruins. You notice now that there's a person hanging around behind them: his back is bowed from bearing a huge bundled sack. No weapons, no armour. At least there's someone who seems safe to approach out here.

The man seems to see you coming, and prepares himself: he lugs the sack onto the ground, and draws out... a colourful collection of capes? Each is bordered in one colour and horizontally striped in another two shades of it — you're not sure if horizontal stripes are quite your thing, but you must admit, they look rather fetching.

Good thing, too, because the man seems rather enthusiastic about you buying one... probably having caught sight of your money pouch, huh. But sure, you'll bite. After all, what's the point of a heavily armoured woodcutter(?) handing over a big bag of free cash if you're not going to immediately blow it all on clothes?

It's hard to decide on a colour, though. You peruse his wares as he holds them out for you, stroking your non-existent beard in thought: the sky blue is certainly nice, but you do enjoy the opulence of the golden variant, not to mention how vivid the pink one is. Barring the "river" behind the guy, you'd be the brightest-looking thing around.

You end up buying one of every colour, just because you can. The man has you forking over a good number of your gold pieces — but as soon as you hold one of those capes in your hands, all possible regret is banished. They're so _soft!_ Layer a few of these up and they could even make for good bedding...

... hmm. Now that's a thought.

You look to the man again, hoping you successfully convey the emotion of "yes, I know I just bought five of your capes, but now I want to buy a whole bunch more". He certainly has no issues with that, and before you know it, you're having cape after cape scooped into your willing arms. By consquence, your money pouch _does_ end up significantly lighter, but it's still got a decent jangle going on. And it's all worth it, right?

Heartened by the weight of your haul, you lug it all over the short distance to the ruins and make your way inside. Wooden boarding — presumably the former floor of the story above — provides adequate shelter, so presumably you're not about to be hit with any flying orange chunks. There's some kind of altar here, too...

... bearing an oddly familiar symbol?

Hey, isn't that the sign of the rebellion? The very reason why you got forced to evacuate Senntisten? Lord, this isn't one of _their_ strongholds, is it? 

Well, if so... given this place's state of repair, it's probably abandoned. That altar's in remarkably good condition, though.

Maybe this is a bad idea.  
  
---  
[Get Outta Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66953017)  
Take Nap (coming soon)


	110. Follow Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Talk to Old Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/60589090) and [Speak to Old Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62859301)

The battlement before you seems even more intimidating than the one in the little river town you departed from. True, it’s nothing when compared to the high armaments of Senntisten, but you suppose you have to lend these poor saps credit for _something._

The swarm of guards outside the place somewhat intimidates you — at least, until you see someone in green armour walk up to one and stab one of them in the back. 

You leap back with a yelp of fright, frantically throwing up your arms against the swarm of guardsmen surely come to apprehend this murderer — 

Who carries on with stabbing another guard like it’s the most mundane thing in the world. You watch, in horror, as body after body falls to the armoured killer, all while everyone around them carries on without batting an eye.

You aren’t sure what’s more sickening; the wanton massacre, or the utter apathy of the victims’ fellows. Stomach churning, you turn your eyes from the gruesome sight and make a beeline for the fortress entrance.

Well, not before stopping to grab some gold one of the guards dropped upon death. You’re low on cash as it is. 

You make your way into the fortress. The dog stays obediently just outside of its entrance, and you pat it on the head as you pass through the doorway. 

The inside is sparse, but sturdy-looking. You’re half expectant of someone accosting you for invading — instead, helpfully, someone has put up signs with the word ‘Books’ on them, with an arrow pointing to what you assume would be the library. 

It’s strange, you muse, how some words seem to have crossed over in the language — albeit atrociously spelled. Perhaps it’s some sort of pidgin speak from the outskirts. 

You reach the library, finding it to be decently stocked, if small. There are several shelves with all a manner of books, some of the titles of which you can recognize. Oddly, these seem to be on the older side. 

_It’s probably more difficult to import them this far out from the empire,_ you tell yourself.

The library seems to be unoccupied, with no clerk or librarian in sight. You’ve no desire to venture to the bloodbath outside, but you still need to meet the mysterious ‘Reldo’ the old woman spoke of.

Ah, well. Might as well pass the time. A few titles catch your eye — which one do you choose?  
  
---  
[Read Durum Ruina](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702537/chapters/54259267)  
[Read Astra Sola](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298522)  
[Read Calida Druida Taverliae](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26187775)  
  
After perusing the books on the shelf, you feel a tap on your shoulder. 

You turn around to see a rather bookish-looking man, eyes hidden behind a strange set of frames holding a pair of rounded glass pieces. He politely clears his throat. 

“??? ? ???? ????” he says. 

You give a weak smile. “Infernal?” you say.

He gives you a careful lookover, before pointing to the next shelf down. 

You nod, gratefully, and head over to your destination. 

This row seems to be occupied entirely by old books — mostly referential, by the looks of it. You scan the line of tomes, eyes drawn to the first words of your mother tongue you can see.

 _Infernus Stupidus._ Hopefully it’ll give you a better bearing of the damned language around here…

As you flip through the book, which seems to be a dictionary. As you do, a small sheaf of papers tumbles from its pages to the ground.

Puzzled, you pick the little bundle up. It’s a loosely bound notebook, made from fairly sturdy vellum and bound with string. It bears no title, but it intrigues you nonetheless.

You flip open to the first page, relieved to see that the handwritten script inside is in the language of the empire. Curious, and squinting at the faded ink, you give it a read.

_3 Ceretem_

_They come in forces unending; Avernics, brutal and bloodthirsty. Icyene, strategic and unrelenting. The last of the evacuations are going underway, though we have been ordered to stay behind._

_What food we can muster from the storerooms is scanty. What grain we have left is moldy; what water we can draw from the drying well is stale. If the enemy does not take us, then starvation surely will._

_Pater Dis says we must have faith. I believe that is all that may remain in this dusty grave-to-be._

_May Zaros, wherever he is, guide us in our fate._

A shiver runs up your spine. An odd feeling creeps up your neck as your hairs prickle, uneased by something you can’t quite put a finger on. Despite your apprehension, you read on.

_5 Ceretem_

_The Prefect and her guard lay dead, slain by the oncoming forces. While the army is repelled for now, it will only be a matter of time before they come again._

_The last of the refugees have absconded, alongside Titus and his cohort. Only a handful remain in the fort, and we await our death with patience._

There seems to be only one entry left in the little book; as you scan over it, the script seems far shakier, as though written in a hurry. You notice, to your disgust, that the page bears the odor of sulfur, despite its age. Wrinkling your nose, you read on.

_13 Ceretem_

_No hope. Last of water ran out three days ago. Throat is dry, more than I could imagine._

_Father is doing something with the pylons. I do not understand. Everything smells of death. Tastes of death. It is here. It is my time._

_The Icyene are coming. I can hear their shouts beyond these damned wall. I hope they die and rot in this place alongside us._

_We have fallen. May our folly be buried in the sands of desert. May no one speak the name of Kharid-et again._

Your breath stops, hitching, as your blood turns ice-cold. You keep reading. 

_May my name fall and be buried with me, for all my cowardice._

_\- Leonida Tycho Marcellinus, Praetorian, A.Z. MMIII_

You’re shaking, the ancient vellum rustling in your hands as you do so. MMIII… one year after you were thrown in jail. 

Leonida. You know him. He was in the cohort adjacent to yours. You remember admiring his glittering armor and unwavering confidence. Not this broken thing of a man.

You look down at the notebook again. It’s clearly ancient — easily centuries old. But it doesn’t make any _sense._ The dates don’t line up. The events… an army of Avernics? Icyene? Zamorak had gone. The Saradominist alliance, while shaky, still stood. And the demons of Infernus were allied to Zaros...

What in the world is going on?

Shaking your head, your rifle through the rest of the notebook for answers. The rest of the pages are blank — nary a smudge of ink — and stinking of sulfur and decay. Eyes watering, you nearly miss the little label placed on the back.

 _Kharid-et Diary,_ it reads, _Third Age, shortly post-fall. Est. dating: 6000 years. Handle with care. Sig. GM Tony, 169_

Your eyes run over the label again. Six… thousand…

No. It can’t be true. It _can’t_ be. Kharid-et _must_ still stand. The empire can’t be defeated. And it couldn’t be….

However, despite your arguments, the evidence is undeniable.

You, Quintus Aurelius Stoke, are very out of your time.

What do you do?  
  
---  
[Panic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66313511)


	111. Faint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Panic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63210931)

You faint like the little bitch you are.

Time for something completely different.  
  
---  
[Be Sir End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65274322)


	112. Be Sir End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Faint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65274055)

You are known, in the most holy order of the White Knights of Falador, as Sir End Dipitee, rank Adept and current custodian of the strange young man who, in the span of forty-eight hours, has managed to rob you, return your stolen good to you, run away from you, rob you again, and now faint in front of your superior. 

Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone to Al Kharid that Ivanday. 

No matter. Sir Amik seems to have taken your prisoner’s little fainting tiff in stride. As he stands, you salute him, and he motions for you to ease.

“Has he managed to communicate with you in any capacity?” he asks. You nod. 

“Infrequently, my liege,” you say. “He requisitioned a copy of my Infernal dictionary from me, which seems to have encouraged him. He is by no means fluent.”

“Has he told you anything?”

“He mostly asked questions, sir. He asked why he was detained and for how long — and why he was here. He named several places I don’t know of. Lassar. Kharyll.” You pause. “He did seem to be aware of the Wilderness’ old name — Forinthry.”

Sir Amik nods, slowly. “Yes,” he says. “That would make sense.”

He glances over the young man, now sprawled rather unceremoniously over the bed, half-draped in the blanket he requested of you. 

“I do not know when he’ll wake,” Sir Amik says. “I have business to attend to — fetch me when he’s conscious.” He narrows his eyes. “Do not enter the cell without another present. He may be resorting to trickery to make an escape.”

“Yessir.” You salute once more as he exits.

You look over to the still-unconscious prisoner. Were you still an acolyte, you would have been flush with embarrassment. But experience has tempered your consternations; Sir Amik is a patient man, and likely anticipated this. 

Still, however, it is an inconvenience you did not expect. No matter. You can wait.

You settle into your chair once more, carefully perusing the Infernal dictionary. It makes your skin crawl to think you’re studying the vulgar language used to summon demons and other such unholy things — however, Sir Amik ordered you to do so, so it is, no doubt, for the best.

It struck you as strange when you found out the origin of your companion’s language. Evil though its roots are, you sensed no ill will from Quintus when you discovered him, even as a thief. Only desperation. 

Perhaps he is simply seeking redemption; something that an Order of Saradomin is only too willing to grant. 

Quintus takes long to stir. The sun dips low and stains the marble pink, and he does not waken; when the bells ring for Vespers, you simply kneel and pray right by his cell instead of going down to the service. You practically know all the sermons now, though the routine is one that soothes you.

You’ve only just lit a couple of candles when he finally rises, groaning and rubbing his eyes. When he’s fully come to, he looks around the room with wide eyes, the blanket clutched to his chest. When he sees that you are the only one there, he seems to relax somewhat.

“Sir Amik,” he says. “Gone?”

You nod, and begin to rise from your chair. “I’m going to fetch him now,” you say. 

As you do, Quintus freezes. Frantically, he shakes his head. “No. No, please. _Please._ Stay.”

You’re all set to ignore him and fetch Sir Amik anyways, but something about his tone makes you stop. In the glint of the candlelight, you can see there are tears in his eyes. 

“ _Please,_ ” he says again, his voice thick. He’s trembling — whatever foul indoctrination he underwent likely taught him that Sir Amik was a force to be feared. While this is true, from what you’ve heard of your commander’s leadership and conquest on the battlefield, you doubt he will use violence on a helpless prisoner.

You sigh. Sir Amik is still likely awake, but you can’t go with fetching him and having this poor fool faint on you again. Might as well reassure him. 

“Sir Amik will not harm you,” you say, reassuringly as you can. “He merely wishes to ask you a few things.”

However, Quintus shakes his head again. “I… I am not. Permitted here,” he says. “I… I do not know where I am…”

He’s openly weeping now, and you feel a pang of sympathy. He seems genuinely convinced that Sir Amik will tear him to shreds. 

You need to calm him down before you fetch the commander. The question is: How?  
  
---  
[Reassure him ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66611173)  
[Threaten him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66610924)


	113. Venture Onwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue, alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65646934).

You'd rather make as much distance between you and the temple as possible.

The shimmering sands aren't particularly inviting, nor are the sparse bits of plant life scattered along them. On top of that, you're not exactly doing the best on hydration right now, and you don't expect that's going to be getting any better as you continue.

You probably wouldn't be getting any water in that mineshaft, though. Better to head for one of the actual structures up above... and hope that they're supplied well enough to assist some lost soul in the desert.

* * *

This was a bad idea. Not just a bad idea, but your _worst_ idea — which, in nineteen years full of increasingly bad ideas, is quite an achievement.

That's just about the only thing you've managed to achieve out here, of course. You did half-remember from some of your meagre army training that cacti are meant to be a decent last-minute water supply. But upon approaching one, being intimidated by the spikes, and realising you had nothing to cut it open with...

Well, a wiser man than you would have turned away there. But an idiot as determined as you are had to go and try cracking the thing open with your teeth and nails alone. The fruits of your labour have earnt you several painful perforations across your hands and mouth, all of which are stinging rather sensitively in the sunlight.

You're sunburnt, and quite possibly developing sunstroke. You wish you'd thought to take your bag with you before abandoning your closest approximation of friends. The loss of its weight against your side feels almost more painful than the cactus battle wounds.

Regardless... you've got closer to your goal and/or goals, to the point that you now find yourself at a metaphorical crossroads. The city is to your left; the tower is to your right. You can get _something_ of a better look at each of them now, but still not enough to reveal very much: the city seems relatively lowly built-up compared to the one you saw on your arrival, and the tower... well, you still can't tell how tall it is, because at some point it just seems to blend in with the sky. Is there a river next to it, or is that just another damn mirage?

You squeeze your dry eyes shut, resigning yourself to the decision. The wrong choice might make this the last decision you ever make.  
  
---  
Turn Left (coming soon)   
Turn Right (coming soon) 


	114. Continue, alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Run!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64629343)
> 
> Weather forecast down this path: 90% chance of Major Character Death, 75% chance of Graphic Depictions of Violence. Give or take. Choose wisely!

You bite back your shame and your guilt, focusing entirely on the land ahead of you... and not the sound of your old friends behind you.

'Friends'. Charitable word for people you've only known for a day.

With the dangling sleeve of your musician outfit, you wipe back the moisture from your eyes and your brow, suddenly cognisant of just how much hotter it is down here. 

Something feels different about this region of the desert... and you're going to need shelter sometime soon.

Speaking of which, there's a mineshaft to your left. It at least looks dark and damp enough to be a decent reprieve from the heat, and -- seeing no better options -- you find yourself drawing near.

A sound shocks you from within it. You couldn't describe the full strangeness of it if you tried, but... an inhuman scraping, a quasi-metallic grind? Something like that.

Unnervingly familiar, too, although you can't quite place it.

Is it enough to put you off, though? You shield your eyes enough to look at the horizon: you swear you can see buildings in the distance, and the shimmering base of what might just be a tower.

It's hard to properly judge the distances, though. The horizon almost seems to merge with the sky in undefined bright lines, creating an odd effect where the structures you're seeing may as well be floating above the ground. There's no proper way to grasp the perspective of this: the buildings might be one mile away... or a hundred.

Meanwhile, you can at least trust that the mineshaft is right here next to you. That's about the only thing you _can_ trust about it, though.  
  
---  
[Enter Mineshaft](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65646970)  
[Venture Onwards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648206)


	115. Enter Mineshaft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Continue, alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65646934).

Sure. May as well.

Another threshold is immediately passed the second you enter the shadow: the temperature has flipped to cold, and while that's a momentary relief, you quickly feel goosebumps rising up on your skin. The light, airy fabric of your costume was not made for conditions like this.

Ever since you were stationed at Kharid-et, though, you've had far too much heat and not enough of the opposite. You'll take it. For now.

You keep moving forward, half to maintain your body temperature, half to distance yourself from the persistent sounds of the troubadour camp on the cliff. You hope Valerio gets some damn good care from that spiteful little Saradominist of his, you tell yourself. They're no longer your concern.

There's some kind of liquid dripping from the walls. You walk over and press your hand into it, grateful to feel something that isn't bone dry. Perhaps if you go further, you could find --

That noise! There it is again. Perhaps that's just what a mining operation sounds like? You've never been unfortunate enough to be a miner, so you wouldn't know.

There's still something about it that triggers some recognition in your mind, though. Something that has your heart pumping uncomfortably.

You continue walking regardless, slowly losing the light from the surface as you go. You keep your eyes fixed on the increasingly uneven floor, mindful not to trip on any of the jagged incisions. It's harder to see now, and you stumble occasionally, but so far you haven't managed to fall.

Actually...

You've never been one to give up or turn back, of course, but you can't deny the thought's crossing your mind here. There's not much more to be achieved in this mineshaft, not really. You've cooled down, for sure, so why not turn around and keep making progress towards whatever you were seeing in the distance? You'll be much better prepared to face that heat.

Yeah. Just a second or two to rest here, and -- 

More noise. Repeatedly, barely noticeable at first but getting louder, and heading in your direction. _Fast._

You turn and bolt for the entrance -- tripping immediately in the process, your face slamming into the ground. Got to scramble yourself up, and you keep moving, keep running from the best start you can manage, you're beginning to see daylight again --

Pain whites out your vision: your heel has been skewered through by _something._ Not from below, but from behind. You try yanking it free, but a barb hooks it in, raking further blinding chasms as you pull.

Another hooks itself around your other ankle, and in the dim light you can just about _see_ the glint of some long claw digging in. You've never seen a claw like that close-up, but you've seen them, and you have certainly seen the work they can do --

Both claws tug backwards, scraping your sandals along the floor. You collapse, falling forward, the breath knocked out of you as your ribcage bashes on rough ground. Then you're dragged backwards by the heels, your vision turning to static.

"QUINT?" It's Andreas, from the entrance of the mineshaft! He can't be far away...

No helping you now, though.

"GO!" you yell, voice choked and parched. You hope desperately that he understands.

Your body is scraped along every sharp corner cut into the floor, dragging long scratches across your skin. From above you, there's the sickening anticipation of claws poised to strike...

... and in front of you, you can just barely see the silhouette of a man.

"Andreas, _no!_ "

The ripper's claws stab downward. They pierce through you in an instant -- at which point, mercifully, you black out.

[Try again?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)


	116. Resort to Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Approach Guards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648404).

Both men crumple to the ground, as a pair of fists powered by primordial energy, the souls of your brethren, and a healthy amount of annoyance lands on each of their heads. 

You dust off your knuckles, quickly scanning your surrounding area for any possible witnesses. You doubt the cranial trauma you inflicted on the guards will cause much brain damage, considering how little there to truly injure. With any luck, they’ll wake up with a raging headache, a fuzzy memory, and an increased respect for harmless old scholars.

You glance over at the wall, satisfied to see Ozan and Leela scaling it with no issue. They don’t seem to have noticed your diplomatic intervention. The less they know, the better.

With that, you turn back to Nardah. It’s probably too much to hope you can finish today’s batch of notes, but you’d rather not leave the empty house to Nkuku.   
  
---  
[Be Ozan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648542)


	117. Approach Guards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Ali the Wise (Again)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/63947446).

“Do you suppose you can scale the walls if I provide a distraction at the entrance?” you say. 

Leela raises an eyebrow. “Certainly. But what sort of distraction would you be able to supply?”

You steeple your fingers. “This particular settlement of desert dwellers are a rather superstitious lot,” you say. “I may be able to use some rudimentary scholar’s magic to confound them.”

“What will you do while we’re getting Quint?” Ozan asks.

“Meet me back over in Nardah,” you say. “I have healing implements at my lodgings, and it will perhaps be more prudent if we travel back separately.”

Leela is looking at you very carefully. “These are well-armed thugs,  _ haj.  _ I do not want to see you injured.”

Ah, young people. So caring. So naive. 

You shake your head. “I have methods of escape — please do not worry about me. Focus on your friend, and I am sure we shall reconvene quite soon.”

Leela gives you a rather hard look, which you pay no heed to. There is an art to a slight, good-natured smile and the easy demeanor of an unperturbed old man. 

You have to hand it to facial hair — it makes your job ludicrously easier when it comes to giving off an aura of wisdom. Who would have postulated that a thatch of dead protein would hold so much sway over the human race? 

Leela makes no further comments as she departs for the wall — however, Ozan stops briefly before he turns, and, out of the blue, grabs your hands. 

“Ali,” he says, his eyes gleaming. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do this… Quintus. He’s not that strong. I’m worried for him.”

You give your best reassuring elderly smile. “I’m sure he will be fine,” you say. “And I wish to ask this young man a few questions myself… Infernal is quite an old language, and I am never one to pass at an unusual linguistic phenomenon.”

_ Or a relic from the empire, _ you privately add. The odd prickle across your skin has returned — not one you would chalk up to desert heat. Strange things are afoot — and you have a distinct feeling that they are about to get stranger.

Ozan departs alongside Leela, staying within the shadows of the dunes. You, on the other hand, head towards the pair of rather bored-looking guards at the entrance, one of whom is idly swatting away the flies with a papyrus leaf.

They stand at attention when they notice you approaching, weapons at the ready — and then relax. An old man is unlikely to be cause for alarm, as far as they’re concerned. 

One raises his chin. “We don’t accept solicitation,” he spits. “If you’re here to beg, then crawl back to the Pollnivneach slums.”

The other one cackles. “Perhaps he’s here to visit a relative, Hakor! Shall we let him join the ranks?”

You shake your head, pulling forth the gentle smile once more. “No solicitations, gentlemen,” you say. “And I am not in search of anything. Instead, if you could draw attention to the object in my hand…”

It’s an ancient Menaphite superstition that locusts are an omen of ill luck. Back in the old days, it only took a simple shadow enchantment to depict a swarm blackening the sky, easily sending soldiers scattering across the sands like wayward tumbleweeds in their fright. 

The two individuals before you wouldn’t even make the cut for the lowliest cohort of  _ scabariti. _ They’ll be running for the hills in mere moments. 

You call upon the ancient energies within you, feeling the pull of old shadow beneath the ground. Magic bubbles in your fingers, and you close your eyes, letting the power seep into your palms. Old visions of Frenesake — blood and smoke and fire, freezing in the night and burning in the day, crawls to the forefront of your memory. You were never a master of shadow — unlike your brother — but you still remember the words of your old teacher:  _ Let the unseen course through you… let the unbecome become… forge what is not into what is… and let the eyes trick the mind of the weak …. _

Shadow locusts pour from your hands with a pestilent roar, landing on the sand in dark little blots. They click and chitter, their legs and wings rubbing against each other, searching for food. Their sound carries a promise of darkness. Of fear. Of fields stripped bare, laid waste by nature’s own scourge. 

However, even as the insects roil and toil in a hideous mass before them, the men merely laugh. 

“Is that supposed to impress us, _ ajooz _ ?” the one on the left howls. “What’s Morrisane hawking now — a plague in a box? Oh, my sides…”

The one on the right wipes a tear from his eye. “Tell you what,” he wheezes. “Just because you made us laugh, we’ll let you go!”

You sigh. Damn imbeciles, unappreciative of their cultural terrors! If Icthlarin were here, he’d likely smite them where they stood for disrespect alone. 

Ah, well. You were hoping not to resort to such crude alternate methodologies, but your objective cannot be compromised.   
  
---  
[Resort to Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648476/)


	118. Be Ozan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Resort to Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648476).

Your name is OZAN….. Well, you’re not entirely sure about the other bit, but last names are for legal documents, and you’re not likely to come within six metres of anything with the word ‘legal’ in it, so it’s not really much to fuss over.

Your name is Ozan, the greatest, most magnificent, bravest,  _ handsomest _ adventurer there is. What pub can go without an epic sung about you? What hero doesn’t know of you and your deeds? You, who brought down the nefarious troll Morningstar? You, who tracked the beastmaster Carn? You, who infiltrated one of Lucien’s bases and encountered the mahjarrat himself?

Well, actually, the last part might be a  _ bit _ exaggerated. Perhaps you didn’t encounter Lucien  _ himself _ . Perhaps it was a skeleton, which is an honest mistake for anyone not familiar with the mahjarrat. And perhaps it wasn’t so much Lucien’s base as it was some ruins in the Wilderness. And perhaps you didn’t so much infiltrate it as blindly stumble into it whilst attempting to find the agility arena. 

Whatever! So you have a tendency to exaggerate. That does not tarnish the fact that you are the greatest thief in Gielinor, renowned among the guilds of adventuring, and that you write magnificent descriptions. You are Ozan, mighty and powerful…

Which is why you are  _ quite  _ sure where you’re going in this labyrinth of caves. Your sense of direction knows no rival, after all. Wait — did you just pass by that lump of rock for the third time? 

No, you think. All sandstone looks the same, after all. You’re letting your nerves get the best of you. 

Getting into the camp, with Ali’s gracious help, was a simple task. Scale the wall while the old man distracted the guards (probably with some kid’s card trick, or something) sneak around the wardens, and make your way into the mining caves. 

You didn’t catch sight of Quint outside — you’re not sure if he’d even last an hour in this heat, to be honest — so you’re fairly sure you’ll encounter him in here. If only the place wasn’t a damned  _ maze… _

Your passage is fairly quiet, punctuated only by the sounds of pickaxes hitting stone. Now and again, the crack of a whip echoes through the caverns, making you shudder.

_ He’s likely in a back room somewhere, _ you think.  _ Knowing him, he probably fainted the minute he got here… poor kid… _

Damnit! You  _ knew _ you shouldn’t have left him that morning… leaving him with Leela should have been enough, but even she couldn’t take down a full gang of kidnappers…

You didn’t even tell him goodbye. You thought you’d be seeing him an hour later, for the love of Het! 

_ Idiot, _ you think, as you turn another corner.  _ If he ends up hurt… _

No. Thoughts like that won’t help you one iota. No task is too great for the magnificent Ozan. Soon enough, he’ll be at your side again, safe and sound. And you’ll make sure he gets out of here without another scratch on him…

A couple of guards notice you as you head into a side passage, charging at you with a shout. They’re little trouble for you to dispatch, and you do so almost distractedly. 

_ Should I grab more figs on the way back? _ You think.  _ There did seem to be more merchants in Nardah… and he did seem to like them quite a lot the last time…. _

You kick a groaning bandit aside.  _ Focus, Ozan, _ you think.  _ The sooner you find him, the sooner he gets out of here. _

_ Don’t worry, Quint. I’m coming for you. _  
  
---  
[Be Quintus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627483) | 


	119. Summarise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Panic (2)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66313511)

Reldo stays silent throughout your explanation. His only reaction is, now and again, to raise an eyebrow, or to readjust his eye-frames.

When you finish, he sits forward, regarding you rather carefully. By now, you’re a little out of breath — it  _ is  _ a rather long story you just told, after all. 

“Quintus,” he says. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you? And a long time.”

You nod, slowly, and try not to think of the little crumpled notebook that’s now sitting on the table. 

“This phenomenon… it is unusual. But not unheard of,” he says. “There have been other chronological phenomena reported throughout Gielinor. A magic key in Kandarin. An odd rock near Piscatoris. Certain spots in the Wilderness — which you would know as Forinthry, of course. Some are rumors, of course. But your tale is not without precedent.”

You shake your head. “What does it all mean, then? Can I go back?”

He half-shakes his head. “That, I cannot say,” he tells you. “The anomaly at Kharid-et may have been a one-way street, so to speak. A lapse — a wrinkle, perhaps — in the fabric of existence that happened to deposit you here and now. Its repeatability would be… dubious, based off of what you have told me. There may be some chronological elasticity, of course, that may revert you to where you were if you stay in the area long enough.”

You stare at him blankly. Though his Infernal is flawless, you think you understood about half the words he just said.

Reldo sees your expression, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What happened to you,” he says, rather slowly, “was likely a coincidence. But if you hang around where you woke up long enough, you might come back.”

When you hear him say this, you almost want to laugh. All the way to this wretched city, and the answer was right under your nose all along!

You move to get up, but Reldo stops you, holding out his hand. “Don’t go running back to Al Kharid just yet,” he says. “The location of your old fortress is going to be considerably harder to get to now — it’s being sanctioned as a dig site for the Varrock Museum. They’re not going to allow unauthorized users there, of course. And the jails of the Emir are not nice places.”

You wince. “How do I get back, then?”

“You best bet?” he leans back in his chair. “Join the guild. Gods know they’re always looking for interns. You might not get to Kharid-et immediately, but the current site they’re working on is where the old center of Senntisten once stood.”

Your heart freezes for a moment, before you shove the thought of digging up your beloved city to the side.  _ One thing at a time, Stoke. _

“Why are you telling me all this?” you say. “You’re a librarian, aren’t you? What do you have to gain?”

“I’m a helpful person, is all,” he says. “Perhaps, there’s an interesting bit of irony in an archaeologist from the past…”

There’s an odd glint in his eye as he says this; it’s there for only a moment, fleeting, before it disappears behind the glare of glass. Brief though it was, you still feel the hairs raise on the back of your neck.

“I’ll, er… I’ll just go on to that,” you say. “The Museum, you said?”

“Yes. It’s just east of here — go out the side exit past the gardens, and you can miss it.”

You mumble a thank you, turning to leave. As you do, you can still feel the librarian’s gaze on your back.   
  
---  
[Continue to Museum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/70563453)


	120. Panic (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Follow Advice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64939957).

You sink to your knees, clutching the little notebook in your hands. Your entire cohort… dead, not long after you left…

Icy fear clasps at your chest. What of your family? Did they escape the destruction? Is what you’ve been walking on the very bones of the society you once called your own?

You think back to the desert city you fled from mere hours ago. Did the Kharidian creep forth over all those years? 

You freeze, suddenly realizing something. If where you appeared was the ruins of Kharid-et… and you’ve been heading north….

Then what remains of Senntisten should be just east of here. 

If there’s anything left, of course.

You sniff, feeling the sting of tears. You feel faint. This is all too much for you to handle — perhaps if you just closed your eyes for a moment, then you’ll wake up and realize that it was all a dream…

“????? ????”

You look up. The man from earlier is looking at you, somewhat annoyedly. “??? ??? ????? ??? ??? ?? ??? ???????”

You sniff. “ _ Paenitet m— _ ” you start, before clamping your hands over your mouth. Idiot! Oh, well. There’s probably nobody around that even speaks Infernal…

Which is precisely why your eyes widen when the man simply nods and replies:

“That’s very well, but please don’t rumple that notebook. It’s a rather valuable relic, and I would rather not see my collection manhandled.”

You leap to your feet. “You… you can understand me?” you stammer.

“Of course,” the man says. “I’m a librarian. And I took a semester of Infernal in college. Can I help you?”

“Reldo,” you say, desperately. “I need to speak to him.”

“At your service.” The man gives a stiff little bow, scrutinizing you as he rises. “And you are....?”

“Quintus Aurelius Stoke,” you say desperately. “Fifth son of Aurelius Lucius Stoke, magister to the third west district of Senntisten. I…”

You swallow. Normally, pride would hold out against any plea you could muster, but what pride is there left when you’ve lost everything?

“Please,” you say. “Help me find my way home.”

Reldo give you a steely look. For a moment, you think you see a glint in his eye, concealed by the strange glass lenses over them, before it vanishes once more. 

“Perhaps,” he says with a sigh, "you should come with me.”

* * *

The man called Reldo ends up taking you to a small back room, smelling of glue and stuffed to the brim with half-bound books, and shoving a hot cup of beige liquid at you. 

“It’s tea,” he says, taking a seat. “Many people around here drink it.”

You take a sip. It’s a little bitter, but somehow your burned throat grounds you, and banishes some of the faintness in your head. 

“So tell me, Mr. Stoke,” Reldo says, leaning back and adjusting his glasses. “How exactly did you end up here?

You gulp. “It’s a bit of a long story….”

“I like stories,” he says, leaning back. “But you can summarise, if you’d like.”  
  
---  
[Tell in detail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/56228332)  
[Summarise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66313664)


	121. Threaten him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Sir End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65274322)

No more kid gloves. You’ll get the information out of this heretic, no matter what it takes.

You learn closer, curling your hand into a fist and slapping it purposefully against your palm. 

“Having a hard time finding your words?” you say, your voice cold. “I’m sure you’ll find them in due time, if you know what’s good for you.”

Quintus doesn’t reply, instead watching you with the wide-eyed wariness of a hunted animal. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Do you know the White Knight’s punishment for liars?” you say. “Or those that conceal the truth by sealing their lips in cowardice?”

He shakes his head. You pick up the candle by you, and walk over to the little cell in the corner. You reach inside, digging around for a moment, before you pull free the skull of whatever stupid resistant sap resided there previously. As you bring it into the light, Quintus’ face pales. 

“Would you rather sit in that jail forever,” you say, “and rot? Or would you prefer the mercy of an expedited end? Staying silent will not aid you, and your allies are quite far away. However, if you comply, then you will not be harmed.”

Quintus is visibly shaking now, but he still remains quiet, his arms crossed.

Perhaps you overdid it a touch? 

No. This is for the greater good, after all. Whichever way Saradomin guides you can only be true, no matter how thick the thorns of the road. 

You sit back in your chair. “You have until morning.”

Quintus sinks to the floor, tears watering in his eyes. Though you feel something in your heart pang, you quickly harden it.  _ He’ll break, soon enough. _

An hour passes, and Quintus still doesn’t speak, instead keeping his terrified gaze locked on you the entire time. Eventually, however, his eyelids droop, and he slumps to the side, asleep. 

You sigh.  _ He’ll be more pliable in the morning.  _ Besides, the candle light is getting low, and your eyes feel similarly heavy. Perhaps… a quick… nap…

As you drift off into slumber, you only barely notice Quintus moving inside the cell, reaching for your bag…  
  
---  
[Be Quintus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66611026)


	122. Be Quint (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Threaten him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66610924)

Sir End doesn’t even notice as you grab the tablet from his bag, slumped over in his sleepiness. You pull it closer to you, quivering with a mixture of fear and relief. A way out…

You look over to the skull on the floor next to your captor. No way are you staying here a moment longer! Without a shred of hesitation, you crush the tablet, your hand doing most of the work, and _finally_ find yourself pulled away...

... and ending up in a wide open town square, where four fountains spit forth from four corners, where market stalls are selling goods such as fur or rolled sheets of vellum, and a man (in impressive armour and a colourful cape, inexplicably followed by a strange fish in a floating bubble) sprints on past, in a hurry to who-knows-where.

You realise in horror that the knights almost certainly have more of those tablets. Here you are, out in the open, somewhere that could be swarming with knights in an _instant..._ and you know, with sickening dread, that your escape's not over yet.

Whoever the man in the armour is, he sure has the right idea. You run away right after him.

His path takes you through from the square to a large palace, yellow banners hanging down from its walls, its guards emblazoned with the same colour. Thankfully, he seems to largely avoid the guards, instead dashing to the right of the entrance: there, a single guard is sprinkling water on a patch of weed-covered soil. A tiny person in green clothes bumbles about alongside it.

You don't know how, but suddenly the man is wielding a hatchet — and while you feel an initial jolt of fear as he swings it near the guard, he instead seems to be aiming for the empty space above the soil patch. For some reason.

...

He continues chopping away at it for quite some time, intently focused on the thin air in front of him, cursing at it perhaps a little more loudly than he might have intended.

You have no idea what's going on.

Regardless, you approach the man, steering clear of the whopping great hatchet he's swinging about -- he seems to be stopping it at a certain point in front of him each time, but for all you know he could decide to swing it right into your neck. You've noticed that his armour (twisted, dark, and even glowing in certain places) is about as far away aesthetically from Sir End and his ilk as it possibly could be, and in your book, that makes this guy at least _relatively_ safe to talk to.

You give him a sheepish little wave. He looks at you in mild annoyance, still not ceasing his thin-air chop.

You open your mouth to speak, but what would you say? There's the matter of him understanding you in the first place, and beyond that, what's stopping him from diverting the course of his wickedly sharp hatchet if you annoy him?

(The witnesses, probably. That guard in particular is most likely not a good person to commit murder in front of.)

As it turns out, though, you don't actually have to say anything. The armoured man looks you up and down, at your shabby, unwashed self in prison rags, and -- stops his chopping to hand over a bulging leather pouch?! You take it, eyes wide, and jingle it just a little in your hand. Surely those have to be solid gold coins!

You look up to the man in awed thanks. Even after that, though, he seems to be considering something else: sure enough, you watch as several sparkling wooden logs appear in his arms, and he offers them out to you.

You have no idea what you'd do with those, but they look pretty cool and magical, and as "cool and magical" usually equates pretty well with "expensive", then sure, why not?

And so he offloads a ton of heavy magical logs onto you. You nod him a quick thanks from behind the towering stack before heading off away from the palace, in a different direction to where you just came.

(You make it just far enough away to be out of eyeshot before giving up on the logs, dropping them all over the ground.)

* * *

You've made it out of the city, at last. That should make you at least a little more safe, though putting some distance between yourself and those walls should make you safer still.

There are two clear paths onwards: a low wall up ahead of you that bounds a strangely charred-looking stretch of land, and on your right, what appears to be some kind of _taberna_. The sun is getting low in the sky, and while you're still managing adequately on the soup you had earlier, you'd certainly appreciate a place to stay the night.

But you're still a wanted man, and outside the bounds of the city, the _tabernae_ are probably the first place they'd look. Perhaps the forbidding landscape ahead is the better option... despite the warning signs stuck into the ground.

(Maybe you should actually pay attention to them... though there doesn't seem to be any _immediate_ danger up ahead...)  
  
---  
[Enter Taberna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277959)  
[Jump over Wall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277977)


	123. Reassure Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Sir End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65274322)

You smile, gently as you can. “You’re safe here,” you say, softly. “I promise you that.”

You pause. “I’ll make sure of that.”

He seems to relax, if only by a degree. “I…” he says. “I do not know… if… you are trustable. How can I know?”

You watch him, carefully. Sir Amik warned you not to be taken in by any tricks, but he truly seems quite helpless. 

Carefully, you unhitch your sword and your side dagger. You unlock the cell door — an action that makes Quintus’ eyes widen, though he does not otherwise move — and slip inside the tiny cell. Then, you lock the door behind you, still grasping the key firmly in your hand. 

_ If he attacks me, then I’ll toss it away, _ you think, settling onto the small patch of floor across from your prisoner.  _ At the very least, if he knocks me out, he won’t be able to escape. _

Quintus is still frozen, eyes like dinnerplates as he watches you seat himself. 

“We didn’t really properly meet, did we?” you say, extending a hand. “You know my name, but… you don’t really know me, do you?”

He looks at your hand blankly, before slowly reaching forward…

And grasping your forearm. You tense, wondering if he’s trying some sort of martial move, but instead he gives you an expectant look. 

It takes a bit of a funny wrist maneuvering, but you managed to clasp it back all the same. Quintus relaxes a degree further, before giving your arm a squeeze and letting go. 

“Why…” he says. “Why… are you doing this?”

“I want you to trust me,” you say. “I want you to know that I am your friend.”

He grabs his translation book and rifles through it; when he gets about a third of the way through, he looks up and scrutinizes you.

“I’m not lying,” you say. “White Knights can’t lie.”

You think you catch him rolling his eyes for a moment, but you choose to ignore it. 

“I brought you here because I wanted to help you,” you say. “And so Sir Amik can help you.”

“You locked me in a  _ cage, _ ” he seethes, gesturing to the bars around him. “How is that helping me?”

“It’s for your safety…”

“What? So I do not hurt you?” he says. “You haven’t helped me at all. You knocked me out and you trapped me… how can I trust you?”

You take in a breath. This is true, of course. The capture-and-secure methods of the White Knights are not celebrated for their subtlety. And it doesn’t help your case at all.

“Quintus,” you say, and he flinches at his name. “What do you want? Most of all?”

He swallows. “I want to go home.” His voice is quivering, tainted by the shake in his jaw. “I want things to go back to the way that they were.”

Something in him seems to have broken; perhaps it’s the dark circles under his eyes, or the sallow, malnourished skin. You notice the bruises around his wrists, now — they look a few days old, at least, so they are not of your comrades’ doing — and you wonder what ordeal he had gone through before your meeting.

“Your home,” you say. “Tell me about it.”

He doesn’t respond, at first, simply giving you that guarded look again; and you raise your hands, if only to demonstrate surrender. 

“You don’t have to say where it is, or name anything. Just… tell me what it’s like, and what it meant to you.”

The guarded look is still there, but he nods. 

The place he tells you about… sounds nice. He has to stop and consult  _ Infernus Stupidis _ several times, but you wait patiently, taking in descriptions he gives to you. Golden streets… clear, sparkling fountain… open theatre plays… children running in the market square, while old men played table games and argued among themselves… 

And a family. A large one, by the sound of it, and filled with good-natured teasing and hair ruffling and tousling, a pile of business that at the bottom of which lay fifth little Quintus, fussed over by all. 

“Thalia would call me  _ Crus, _ short for  _ crus ciconiae,”  _ he says. “‘Stork legs.’ I was always the skinniest in the family…”

“She's the one getting married, right?”

“She _was_ married, the last I saw her. To some pompous patrician, no less, thought he was the world’s gift because he owned two and a half farms… Aelia is betrothed to a playwright. Father had a right fit when he heard, but he and Terence get along rather well now.”

“And you hope to see them again?”

He doesn’t reply — instead, he turns his head to the floor and stares at one spot for a long while, unmoving.

And then:

“What of your family?”

You shrug. “Ah, it’s only my sister, my mother and I. We used to live in Draynor, but I moved them here when I started taking a salary with my vows. The vampyre problem they have over there has gotten quite out of hand…”

“No father?” He doesn’t look at you, but you can hear the sadness in his voice.

You shake your head. “He died when I was very young — it was during a skirmish with the Kinshra. I don’t really remember him. All I have is this.”

You pull free the holy symbol from your belt, watching it gleam in the candlelight. You took care to shine it — as much as you can shine gold, anyways — the night you returned from Al Kharid, clearing away the sand and the grime. 

When he sees it, Quintus’ face reddens, and he turns away further.

“I…” he stammers. “I’m sorry I took it… I didn’t know it meant that much to you…”

Against your better judgement, you reach forward, touching his shoulder lightly with your hand. He tenses, but turns back to you, his face now beet-red.

“You returned it, didn’t you?” you say, smiling gently again. “That’s all that matters. You’re an honest man, Quintus, which is why I want to help you.”

He avoids your gaze once more, eyes flicking to the side. “Um… you did seem… Well, you were rather distressed yourself…”

“Please,” you say, squeezing his shoulder tighter. “Do not think of it. Think of your home. We'll find a way to get you back there — soon. I promise.”

“Truly?” He looks to you, eyes glassy, face scrunched in disbelief. “I… I don’t know if that’s even possible….”

“Trust me,” you say. “I’ll help make it happen. I promise.”  
  
---  
[Continue (Coming soon)](LINK4)


	124. Give Quintus a Hug

You give Quintus a hug. He feels much better about things.

"Thank you," he says.


	125. Get Outta Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Investigate Building](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64939345).

You're exhausted. You'd like nothing more than to curl up and take a nap.

But you're not taking your chances.

You agonise over your many newly-purchased capes, eventually managing to decide which one to take with you: the black and red one should work adequately as camouflage, given the charred land and the burning glow from the nearby "river".

You pile up the rest behind the altar, hoping they're hidden well enough. You spent a lot of money on those, after all, and you _do_ intend to come back for them. You wave goodbye to your beloved fashion capes, hoping dearly that it amounts to no more than a "till the next time".

From there, you journey back across the sole bit of land interrupting the "river" around this island. The heat that radiates from it is just as strong as last time — feeling even hotter in the cold of the evening, in fact — and you do have to dodge the occasional flying blob of whatever orange substance fills that "river". One leaves a streak of heat across your arm as it just narrowly misses... but crucially, your cape survives unscathed.

Ahead of you, you catch sight of the usual gnarled dead trees and blasted ruins that seem to fill this charming place. A little further off, though... can it be?

You venture closer to get a better look, and yes! Demons! Abyssal demons, to be precise: the bright purple stripes are unmistakeable in the darkness of the dusk. They've never been known for particularly good drill discipline, and just as usual, they seem to be milling about all over the place...

... around an inexplicably intact stone structure. Four pillars stand on a square platform, large enough for several people or one wagon. It reminds you of the transport nodes you've seen (and occasionally used) for relatively long-distance travel throughout the Empire: more for military use than civilian use, and largely all captured or destroyed by the time you joined the army, but there was one still in action that linked Kharid-et with nearby suppliers.

You were tasked with using it to run errands on occasion, bringing back food from the farms in order to restock the culinarum. You only _sometimes_ snuck a bit of the food for yourself.

Well, now you've _got_ to check this out. You draw closer, and can definitely see that the transport node is far older than the ones you're familiar with. But the Empire is old — older than almost anything, in fact — and so you wouldn't be surprised if this used to be Zarosian territory, lost in a war many years older than you. 

Could it still be linked to a place you know...?

The abyssal demons continue to swarm around you, barely taking any notice. You wonder what they're doing here. Of course, you're not likely to get an answer out of them any time soon, so it's no use asking questions, but you simply can't help being curious. The remnants of an old legion, cut off from the Empire? Or are they in the process of retreat, regrouping briefly before marching back to safer ground? If so, you may well want to join them.

But you're not doing anything like that before you check out the transport node — the compulsion, the tug of familiarity, is simply too strong to resist. You approach one of the pillars, ascending the small stone staircase, and place your hand on the side — yes! The surface is burnt and blackened, but the structure is strong and the magic within it responds to you just as you're used to.

"Hello," you find yourself saying. You realise you've been smiling.

Fixed in your mind is the image of the familiar outlying farm, and the node they had in place there. Your mind pushes the image into the pillar, but you don't quite feel it connect... which, in honesty, is a relief. Access your supply chain, this close to Saradominist civilisation? You'd have to inform your superiors at once.

But since you're not able to do that, you'll take the next best you can get. You simply transmit an intent to travel, with no particular destination, and trust that the magic will make the right choice.

Your request is accepted: the magic orbs within each pillar flare into life, powering up with an intensifying hum. You dash to the middle of the platform and wait...

Beams of magic bring you up and away, and you feel yourself rematerialise somewhere entirely different. Your new surroundings are mostly the same old blasted landscape, but there's a mossy green strip of land up ahead, more lushly vegetated than anything else in the region. In the midst of it is a clear pool of water, maybe even a spring — and Lord, what you wouldn't do for a wash or a drink right now.

A few things are stopping you from venturing any closer, though. Those few things are the giant mossy entities surrounding the pool, armed with particularly nasty-looking wooden clubs.

You suppose you can leave it a little longer.

A more immediate problem is the surge of people running towards you. _Armed_ people, armour-clad. That puts you on edge for a second, until you realise none of them are actually looking at you — you watch as they run right past you, making a charge for a makeshift camp up to your left.

You hadn't seen the camp until now, but now that you do, it's impossible not to notice that it's riddled with symbols of Saradomin. The people within it are garbed in blue, though in a more ragged, slapdash manner than you're used to seeing from them — and yet there's no mistaking them for followers of anyone else.

And on the other hand, the people charging towards it happen to be wearing the exact same cape as you. You know which side you'd be taking anyway, but it's good to have it confirmed.  
  
---  
Join the Charge (coming soon)  
Stay Back (coming soon)


	126. Be Quintus (Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Ozan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648542).

Your name is QUINTUS. You are in a barrel. It’s rather hot in here.

Too hot, actually. The amount of sweat accumulating on your brow and body is rather distressing — not to mention the fact that you’re growing progressively dizzier. 

Perhaps it’s time you got out of the barrel, if only to cool off. You press your hands to the lid above you, ready to feel the cool rush of air — 

That never comes. Because, apparently, when you hid within this wretched container of wood and iron, you didn’t account for the fact that the lid would _lock into place._

You utter a curse, beating your fists against the barrel top to no avail. This, of course, only raises your body temperature further, and you fall back against the walls of your tiny prison, panting.

Hopefully help will come soon, you think to yourself as your vision begins to fade. And hopefully whoever comes to rescue you doesn’t find you pickled in your own sweat…  
  
---  
[Be Leela](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627517)


	127. Be Leela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Quintus (Again)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627483).

Your name is LEELA BINT OSMAN IBN TUMEKEN AL-UZER, and quite frankly, you’re fed up with the state of things.

“Come down to the square,” Ozan had said. “I’ve got an interesting fellow you should meet, you’ll love him!” he said. “How’s your Infernal, by the way?” he said. 

_Stupid!_ The only thing you’ve gotten out of the whole business is a conversation with a lunatic who thinks he’s from the Zarosian empire, a favour owed to the resident tax preparer, a day wasted chasing across the desert, and having to put up with two idiots making goo-goo eyes at each other for an entire damn night. 

At least you’ve found your way into this blasted camp. You doubt that the Menaphites would keep any sort of intel about their city — or their pharaoh — in a little dump like this, but it does give you some idea of what resources they’re sending down south. 

You mentally take a map of the tunnels as you stalk through them, occasionally ducking into a little side cave or alcove when you hear footsteps approaching. You’ll have to dedicate this all to papyrus later, of course, and send it up to your father…

Your thoughts are interrupted when you spot a break in the monotonous stone wall — a wooden door, likely a store room or some administrative office. One might hold the warden of this place. The other, likely a pile of mining tools. 

You press your ear to the door. Nothing. Slowly, you turn the handle…

And reveal a small, stuffy closet, filled with broken specimens of Ali Morrisane’s finest shoddy mining equipment, as well as a couple of barrels. 

You sigh. _Another dead end._

As you turn away to leave the room, however, you hear a small whimper behind you.

You whip around, crossbow cocked and at the ready, pointing towards the source of the sound….

The barrel. 

Slowly, on silent feet, you creep towards the container. With a hand as quiet as a viper in the sand, you touch the lid. Slowly, you lift it….  
  
---  
[Be Ozan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627556)


	128. Be Ozan (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Leela](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627517).

If you don’t know the name by now, shame on you. 

The passages for this place seem to go on forever — cave, cave, dead end, another cave, weird rock…

At one point you come across a couple of jail cells, and your heart leaps. It subsequently sinks when you see that they’re empty, and adds a wretched little twist when you see the chain-bound skeleton in one of them. It’s too old, obviously, but it makes you pause nonetheless. _Eyes on the prize, Ozan._

You’re about to turn around and start over at the beginning when you hear the sound of thudding footsteps, quickly racing your way. 

You’re barely able to turn when Leela rushes past you, her normally-light footfall now weighted down by…

“A barrel?” you say, just as she shoves the thing into your arms. It’s somewhat heavy, though not as much as you’d expect a full barrel to be; and the look Leela gives you has a bit murder in it than usual. 

“I suggest you run,” she says. “Unless you want you and your boyfriend to look like a pincushion in the next six seconds.”

“He’s not my —” you start, before you’re interrupted by the sound of a bolt striking the wall next to you.

Leela utters a curse, returning fire as half a dozen guards race down the hallway. You grab the barrel in both arms and _run_ , racing towards the passageway that you vaguely recall as being in the direction of the exit. As you do, you hear a steady progressive _thuds_ that denote bodies hitting the ground. Leela might not have the kill count you do, but she’s certainly efficient. 

And as you round the corner, you hear her shout behind you:

_“You owe me!”_

* * *

You dash through the hallways, unmindful of occasional shout, crossbow bolt, or mace that hurtles your way. Elidinis seems to be having mercy on you, since you manage to find your way to the exit fairly quickly. Whatever sympathy the goddess possessed, however, seems to have dried up by the time you reach outside, since there’s a battalion of angry looking guards now standing between you and the gate. 

You grin. “Sixteen to one?” you say. “Bit unfair, I’d say. Are you sure you don’t want me to tie one arm behind my back, so’s to balance it out?”

Unfortunately, the guards don’t seem to have a sense of humor, since they end up charging straight at you with an angry roar. 

Time for Plan B, then. You see it out of the corner of your eye: The mined bit of rock deep enough for a foothold, off to the wall over there…

The guards are a breath away when you reach the wall, weaving and dodging arrows and bolts all the way. You can _juuust_ make it if you aim your jump right. 

You look down at the barrel. The occupant, so far, hasn’t made a sound, and you hope this is a sign that he’s laying low despite the chaos. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as you toss the barrel over the wall. It clears the top no problem, and you hear it land in the sand on the opposite side. With any hope, it’ll have cushioned the blow. 

A bolt grazes your leg, and you utter a curse. No time to speculate. Leela can hold her own — you need to get out of here. 

With all the grace of a desert goat, you jump onto the makeshift foothold and scramble up the wall, making it to the top in mere seconds. Unable to resist, you stand on the wall and take a little bow. 

“Thank you all for coming to this week’s performance of _Ozan the Barrel Hauler_!” you announce. “Come by next week, when I attempt the same feat, this time with balancing plates —”

An arrow shrikes by your ear. You shake your head. “No class at all, these desert slavers…”

With that, you jump down onto the other side, landing next to the thankfully-intact barrel. You scoop it up once more, thankful to feel its weight in your arms once more. 

“Don’t worry, Quint,” you mutter, as you start the long trudge back to Nardah. “You’ll be safe soon. I promise.”  
  
---  
[Be Quintus (Again.)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627630)


	129. Be Quintus (Again) (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Ozan (2)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627556).

_Heat_. What a wretched thing it is. Senntisten was fair climated — you had a day or, certainly, in the high summer when things would be nigh-unbearable, but then you could just go for a dip in the _frigidarium_ and call it a day. 

But in Kharid-et, the heat was inescapably everywhere. It would crawl under your armour and prickle on your skin, turning your saliva to glue and settling in the small of your back, reducing all feelings down to weightedly sticky. Even your sweat wouldn’t grant you a reprise; it would be too damp to evaporate, leaving you feeling wretchedly moist on top of your misery. 

That’s how you are now — at least, where you think. Damp, sticky, sweaty, and cramped in this little place, your vision fading in and out of blackness, and your head swimming with dizziness. 

You’re moving. At least, you think you are. Up and down and down and up, like you’re bobbing on an ocean beyond your control. Ah, perhaps you are! Maybe the water will leak in and cool you down….

You hear shouting. It’s muffled through the wood and your incoherent ears, but it seems to be angry. Perhaps a ship full of pirates?

Wait. You’re… on a wave. Rising, high up, what a great wave it is! There’s something rustling behind you, a familiar voice — and then it all comes tumbling down, sending you crashing down into the soft water below. 

Darkness. Damp. Are you drawing? You can’t breathe. You’re hot, burning. Or are you cold? If you curl into yourself, perhaps you can stay warm….

And then that voice again. It’s floating through the cracks in the wood, a siren song from something come from the depths, meant to drown you. But it’s oh, so, so lovely…

_“Quint.”_

* * *

It’s a muffled kind of darkness you wake up to — damp and blessedly cooling. You blink, panicked, when you realize that opening your eyes doesn’t give you sight. 

A second later, you realize that this is because there’s a towel on your head. 

There’s towels all over you, in fact. They’re all wet, the cold water soaking into your skin and banishing away the horrible hotness that threatened to swallow you before. 

You manage to free your arm from the towel pile, reaching for the rag over your eyes — however, a hand from nowhere gently grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” a soft voice says from next to you. You recognize it — particularly, the atrocious Infernal accent. 

“Ozan,” you say. Your body sags in relief; just his presence gives you comfort.

“Where am I?” you mutter. “You… I was with Leela…”

“You’re back in Nardah,” he says. His voice is soft; almost sorrowful, you note. “The raiders shouldn’t come back, the trail is covered well…”

He pauses. “You’re safe now,” he says. “Quint… Ah, I never should have left you behind…”

His hand is still holding yours, resting on your chest, and you turn your palm upward, curling your fingers around his and squeezing. 

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he keeps his hand where it is, fingertips softly pressing into your skin. 

“You should sleep,” he says after a measure. “Ali says your body still needs to heal.”

You’re about to ask who Ali is, but your eyelids are beginning to grow heavy. As you close them to the darkness of the towel, you feel his hand begin to move. With what strength you have left, you hold it in place.

“Don’t go,” you whisper. “Please.”

Silence. And then:

“I won’t.”

* * *

When you wake up, it’s night time. The towels seem to have disappeared, replaced by a linen sheet, and the cool evening air feels light on your skin. 

You sit up, wincing as the various bruises on your body make themselves known. _Did_ they take you out of that dreadful place in that cursed barrel? From the way your muscles ache, you would’ve thought they’d tossed you in the air and rolled you downhill the entire way…

You hear a soft noise coming from the floor. You look over, and see that Ozan is curled up on the floor, crossbow in hand as he sleeps. 

It’s a sight that makes you freeze, if only for a moment. You don’t know if it’s because of the crossbow or because of him. 

Gently, quietly as you can, you slip out of the bed, making sure your feet don’t touch the sleeping man. You pad over to the wind, through which a slight breeze is blowing, and look out at the sleeping city below. 

Nardah’s silvery in the faint moonlight, and the stars are a little less visible than the night before. You lean on the window sill, simply taking in the scene before you — the peace. The quiet. The coolness. The open space, stretching. There’s something timeless about it all — part of you hopes that tomorrow won’t come, and the stillness of the desert makes you almost believe it. 

You sigh. Tomorrow can wait. All the dreadful sea of context and realization and whatever in Infernus happened today can wait. Right now you have this anchor of a moment, and by Zaros, you’ll cling to it. 

You release a breath; as you do, you hear the soft sound of sheets rustling behind you. 

You turn. Ozan is up sitting on the bed and simply watching you. Even in the faint moonlight, you can tell his eyes are tired. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” you say, a little sheepishly. “Erm… I’m not trying to escape, I promise.”

“I didn’t think you were,” he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “I sleep light. And I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I am.” You walk over to the bed, sitting next to him. You’re a decent distance away, but you can still feel his warmth beside you. “Your Infernal is better.”

“I’ve been doing a little practicing,” he said. “Ali the Wise gave me some of his books.”

This Ali fellow seems to come up a lot. He’s probably important. Ah, well. You’ll worry about it tomorrow. 

“Ozan,” you say. “You… you don’t need to sleep here. You have a bed, do you not?”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns away staring at the wall ahead. His face is expressionless, but you can see his fingers dig into the mattress below him. 

“I’m fine here,” he says. “And I want to make sure you’re safe.”

You find his hand on the bedding, curling your fingers over it. It’s a little cold in the night, and you give it a squeeze. 

Perhaps on impulse — you might be still dizzy with heat sickness, or delirious with exhaustion, or even just giddy to be freed from today’s ordeal — you lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. It’s a thing laced with gratitude, brief and fleeting, and you hear him front in surprise as you do so. 

He turns to you as you pull away, his eyes wide. You tense — it’s been only a day, but with all that’s happened, you briefly wonder if things have changed in a way you couldn’t sense.

That feeling is quickly banished, however, when he curls his arm around your head and pulls you closer. 

_This_ is a proper kiss, and you wrap yourself around him before you can even properly register what’s happening. His other hand travels up, resting on your cheek and pulling you even closer, and he lets his breath out in one long beautiful sigh.   
  
---  
[Continue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/71401845)


	130. Look After Valerio (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Hide Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/6213357).

Your chest is tight with pain to see Valerio like this. You need to do something to help him, you know it -- but what _can_ you do? You've barely just met the man, but you feel a stronger connection to him than anyone else you've met here...

... barring Catherina, of course, for however long that lasted. You wish you had her here. At least she'd be able to talk to him.

Can you? You can interpret at least a few words whenever you hear these people speaking, so why wouldn't it be the other way round?

If even just one or two comforting words get through to him...

"Valerio..." you begin, not knowing where you're going. His eyes, barely half-open, flit up to meet yours.

You continue. "I don't know how you knew Sister Elena --" he flinches just slightly at the name -- "and to be honest, it really kind of baffles me that you'd even know her or like her. That doesn't really matter, though, because she's dead, and..."

You pause a moment, thankful that he can probably only understand about two words of this. Maybe you'd be doing a _worse_ job if you spoke his language.

"... I don't know. I don't know, Valerio. I have no idea how I got here, but those people up at the temple gave me food and shelter -- hell, for a minute there I even had someone I cared about -- and then suddenly I'm moving some woman's torn-up corpse. And Lord, I barely knew her and kinda hated her, but it messed me up. I had to get out, and here _you_ are, and..."

You take a second to breathe.

"Now we've both had a hell of a day, huh." You laugh sadly at the fact, and oh Lord, Valerio's almost smiling again but it's a _tragic,_ pain-stricken smile.

You feel where his hand has met yours -- is he really more steady than before, or are you only just hoping so? He moves, slightly, to curl his fingers around and under your palm in a barely-extant grip, and Lord, you could almost cry.

And he says something. That strong singing voice you heard earlier is nothing more than a whisper now, and you strain your ears to hear it. What he says is close enough to your language that you can just about understand it -- and the sentiment he expresses is a universal one.

"Stay safe, Quint."

You dearly hope you can.  
  
---  
Continue (coming soon)


	131. Look after Valerio (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Run to the Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/62133493).

The journey down the hill feels like a lot further than it is. You keep chancing sideways glances at Valerio: how weak he looks, limping along, head slumped. The only thing keeping him upright is the drummer's strong, careful grip... and you find yourself envying it.

You return to the musicians' camp. As tragic as Valerio's song had been, the silence that hangs there now feels more sombre still. The members of his band that stayed down here are now stepping aside, allowing the drummer to carry Valerio through; you find yourself following after them. A couple of the band are whispering to each other, darting the occasional worried look at Valerio in the process.

The female dancer is right at the drummer's side: once they reach a large tent, she draws open the flap for him, and the drummer lies Valerio down on a mat inside.

Valerio mumbles something to the drummer, barely audible as well as being in a different language -- you assume it's a short word of thanks. Then... nothing. There he stays, flat on his back. Slowly, shakily, he raises a hand to rest it on his bare chest; only by noticing its slight rise and fall can you tell he's even breathing.

You're hesitant to draw near.

"Valerio?" you call quietly, though even saying anything at all feels wrong in this strange silence. Regardless, you watch as his eyes gently flit over to look at you.

He smiles at you... or at least tries to. Seeing the anguished creases in his brow while he makes his best damn attempt to put on a happy face -- you can't help but feel a pang in your chest.

You kneel down beside him and rest a hand on his shoulder, still warm from the sunlight.

"Valerio..."

Lord, you wish you could talk to him. You don't know what you'd say, yet _anything_ would be better than what you're capable of doing right now. You can offer him your physical presence, you can gently move your thumb across his skin in some attempt to calm him, and still...

No, it just doesn't feel like enough. You talk anyway, hoping he can understand at least some of it.

"Valerio... I don't know how you knew Sister Elena --" he flinches just slightly at the name -- "and to be honest, it really kind of baffles me that you'd even know her or like her. That doesn't really matter, though, because she's dead, and..."

You pause a moment, thankful that he can probably only understand about two words of this. Maybe you'd be doing a _worse_ job if you spoke his language.

"... I don't know. I don't know, Valerio. I have no idea how I got here, but those people up at the temple gave me food and shelter -- hell, for a minute there I even had someone I cared about -- and then suddenly I'm moving some woman's torn-up corpse. And Lord, I barely knew her and kinda hated her, but it messed me up. I had to get out, and here _you_ are, and..."

You take a second to breathe.

"Now we've both had a hell of a day, huh." You laugh sadly at the fact, and oh Lord, Valerio's almost smiling again but it's a _tragic,_ pain-stricken smile.

He moves his hand from his chest -- is it really more steady than before, or are you only hoping it is? Valerio rests it on your hand, the one still curled around his shoulder. He holds it in a barely-extant grip, and Lord, you could almost cry.

And he says something. That strong singing voice you heard earlier is nothing more than a whisper now, and you strain your ears to hear it. What he says is close enough to your language that you can just about understand it -- and the sentiment he expresses is a universal one.

"Stay safe, Quint."

You dearly hope you can.  
  
---  
Continue (coming soon)


	132. Play Dice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Enter Taberna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/64277959).

You're glad that dice, at least, seem to be a worldwide constant. There are few better ways to waste time than by blowing your entire salary on random chance, and with a big heavy coin pouch now weighing you down, you're eager to lighten it up a bit.

(Or even make it heavier. If you're luckier than you've ever been in your life, you might just win back your dinner money!)

You weave your way to their table, peering between two spectators' shoulders for a glance at the game. There seem to be quite a few dice in play, though they're distributed rather unevenly: one player is struggling by on three, while the person with the most appears to have, what, nine? Accompanied by a large pile of coins, no less. She's wearing some bright blue chestplate that gleams gold at its edges, and she's using a matching helmet to cover her dice after rolling them.

After having watched for a while, the game itself looks rather simple. You've played a few different dice games in your time, and this looks quite similar to _cera Caci_ , a game in which dice are rapidly "eaten" and "vomited up" as if by an overfed Chthonian duke.

You watch each of them pay in a stack of five coins, which you assume is the entry bet to play a round. Each player then rolls their dice in secret; a man in black robes hides his roll with a dangling sleeve. Once all the rolls have been made, the player with nine dice takes the chance to raise her bet to twenty gold pieces. The second player matches it — but the third player slams their hat down on the table and storms out of the _taberna_ , leaving the pitiful roll on their three dice out in the open.

The woman with nine dice bares her teeth in a grin, watching him go.

Of the five players still at the table, only one other matches the bet. Each of them then puts forward their three best dice: the man in black robes has managed a total of thirteen, another made it to fiften... and the armoured woman has seventeen, just one under the maximum. Reaching out with both hands, she gleefully brings in the entire pot to add to her growing pile. Muttering something foul at his loss, the robed man flicks her a single die, leaving him with four and the woman with ten.

In _cena Caci_ , the die given up from the loser to the winner is called the "blood feast". You wonder what boring name they give it in Saradominist territory.

The woman's clearly gloating now, calling upon the audience for a claimant to the quitter's discarded dice. You're tempted, that's for sure — with her putting on such an outrageous performance, you can't help wanting to reverse her fortunes. But seeing how heavily the odds are stacked in her favour...  
  
---  
[Play Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/70562508)  
[Abort Mission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/70562589)


	133. Play Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Play Dice]().

You came here to entertain yourself, and that's exactly what you're going to do. If you manage to beat the winner here, it'll be more entertainment than you've managed in years.

And if not? Well, you'll just have to quit while you've still got enough coins to clink.

You jump and wave to show that you're taking her up on the challenge, pushing through the crowd to reach that vacant chair. You sit yourself down, pinned into your seat by stares of absolute disbelief from all around. Having such a limited grasp of the language here means you can't say anything to prove them wrong, so... looks like your actions will have to speak for you.

Well, and one other thing. You plonk your bulging coin pouch on the table, and the woman's eyes widen.

 _That_ should tell her you're serious.

She addresses you across the table with some statement or another, something you have no hope of understanding — a few words from you in Infernal, though, and she gets the message likewise. She has no interest in talking to you any more.

The robed man on your right, though... he addresses you, as silently as he can. "You have the demon tongue, boy?"

"What? What do you mean —"

He makes frantic gestures to hush you, cutting you off quickly. "Speak it not so openly. We must reconvene in private, once this foolish game is done."

You nod simply in response, and return your focus to the game. 

The entry bets are being placed — the man who just spoke to you is going first, and starts out by setting it at twenty. You're not sure what his game is, but you play along all the same. Twenty gold it is.

With five of you around the table, you're all now playing for a pot of a hundred gold. Given how ten will buy the nicest meal here, you imagine a full hundred is far from a small amount.

Blocking the view with the considerable heft of your money pouch, you roll your pitiful three dice — and you can't hide your delight as each one comes up a six. You're not sure you've ever been this lucky before!

Round the table once more, the robed man adds to his stake. Lord, he must be confident on this one: he's adding twenty more coins — no, thirty, to a total of fifty! You'd be a fool not to match that, not with a roll like yours. In fact, you raise the bet by another fifty, leaving each _individual_ bet at a hundred gold pieces... if the players are willing to match it.

The third player is clearly unwilling, as is the fourth. Then the turn reaches the armoured woman, with her hoard of ten dice and her larger hoard of gold, flashes you all a winning smile — before doubling it to two hundred.

Silent, merely rubbing at the ring through the bridge of his nose, the robed man meets that bet. You do so as well.

Even if this ends up as a three-way split, you've never been this lucky in all your life.

The time has come to reveal your rolls. The robed man does so first, pushing forward his chosen three dice — a two, a five and a four, making a measly eleven?! What was his strategy, some kind of failed bluff?

You're next, with a roll that genuinely deserved this high a prize — only three dice, but to the crowd's amazement, you've landed a six on all of them.

The armoured woman's not as smug as she was last round, but she's still fairly confident as, from her ten dice, she pushes forward a six, another six, and — wait, a one?!

She seems just as shocked as you are.

So that's what... three hundred gold, plus forty more from the players who didn't meet the raise? You're almost stunned by the magnitude of your winnings, so much so that you can't even move to gather it all in. The robed man seems to be doing so in your stead, scooping it into another pouch for your benefit. All the while, the woman's shock is turning to anger — and she stands up, her chair clattering down behind her. She points a finger firmly in your direction.

The man in robes hands over the pouch of your new winnings, coming close to your ear to whisper: "Tear the scroll in your lap, and wait for me there."

You're about to make another confused remark at him, until you realise there is indeed a scroll in your lap. How'd it get there?

"Go!" the man hisses.

The woman looks like she's about to make a grab for your shirt — and she looks _strong,_ like she could throw you over the table in one swing. Before she gets the chance, you clutch onto your old and new money pouches while making a feeble one-handed rip in the scroll —

— and in an instant, you're somewhere else.

Night has definitely fallen, wherever this is. There are wooden fences to one side of you, a path on another, a set of cracked stone ruins in the woods nearby...

It's far from the first time you've felt this way in the past days, but you truly have no idea where you are.  
  
---  
Panic (coming soon) 


	134. Abort Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Play Dice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/70562379/).

You clutch your money pouch all the tighter, refusing to let her get to you. No, you _earnt_ this money... purely by standing in the proximity of a rich person, but it's yours now all the same. You're not letting some bragging gambler get their hands on a single piece of it.

There's a bit of a jeer from her and some others as you back away from the table, but that's quickly subsumed into the ongoing ruckus of the game. You find that empty table again, setting your bowl down on its surface as you sit, and any attention that might've been paid to you is gone.

Whatever interest you had in investigating that symbol of Zaros, the person who'd been holding the staff seems to have gone — along with the rest of their party. The rowdy game of dice accounts for most of the noise in this place; you sit alone, and eat your meal in silence.  
  
---  
Continue sitting at Table (coming soon) 


	135. Continue to Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Summarise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/66313664/).
> 
> Strong warning for graphic imagery of societal collapse.

The museum is the first this in the godforsaken place that reminds you, achingly, of home. The stone is different, and the architecture is off, but there’s no denying where the idea for the stone pillars set before it came from. 

You step in, with some trepidation, while your faithful canine companion waits patiently outside. 

It’s quiet in here. Shining glass displays hide all manner of displays, with tarnished old brass plaques beneath each of them. Off in the corner, behind a barrier of cloth ropes, you see several workers in stained smocks and aprons hunched over long, canvas-covered tables, cleaning clumps of dirt and old pottery with small brushes and chisels. 

There are few signs of life in this place, save for a teacherly-looking woman dragging about a couple of snot nosed children and pointing out the significance of the dusty objects on display. The sound of tapping and scraping from the cleaning station is the only thing that fills the place, as well as soft footsteps and the occasional wet sniffle from one of the children. 

You scan the immediate area. There — an important-looking fellow, adorned in all black with a rather fancy-looking cape — seems to be overlooking the cleaning station. You’ll likely learn more of this mysterious ‘guild’ if you speak to him.

Steeling yourself, you begin to march over. As you do, however, a certain display catches your eyes, and you give pause. 

A Zarosian symbol, its gold untarnished, lays on a cloth pillow, gleaming under the sunlight that pours through the museum’s windows. It’s a touch dusty, but you would recognize it anywhere. It’s an _insigne_ — a symbol that you’d hang over the central shrine, over the hearth, or by the threshold to symbolize your patronage and loyalty to the _Dominus Vacuus_. 

It’s strange, to see a thing so familiar now trapped by glass to be gawked at by onlookers. The biting feeling in your chest that’s been nibbling away at your placidity is gnawing once more, and you’re not sure how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay. 

Your feelings are no more alleviated the longer you stare at it; as you glance over the plaque beneath it, two words glare out of the lexical gibberish. 

_Destruction_ and _Senntisten._

This is what survived the rubble, you realize. You look around, seeing mostly Saradominist symbols; all you need to see, really, to know who won that particular siege. 

And, before you can stop yourself, the tide of memory overtakes you. 

* * *

_Collapse came slowly, and then all at once, like some overbearing mudslide that only gave warning with a tiny trickle of water, before overtaking everything in an avalanche._

_It started when Zaros fell. That night, perhaps, was only the tip of the iceberg — you were in the middle of a round of_ latrunculi _with Aelia when your oldest brother came bursting in, red-faced and blustering, and declaring that Zaros had been betrayed and slain._

_You didn’t believe it at the time, of course. It had to be up there with all the other ludicrous rumors that flew over the city — that Loarnab was rousing from its slumber, that the bakeries bulked their bread with sawdust, that the heathen warrior Bandos was planning a war — and you had simply brushed it aside like anything else. That night, when you retired to bed, you could hear your father, your brother and your uncles speaking in hushed voices downstairs, their whispers hurried and frenetic as they floated up the stairs._

_The next few weeks had been filled with tension, and more rumors coming in. Some said Legatus Zamorak did it. Others said it was Sliske, or Drakan. Whatever it was, the stories didn’t stop coming; they filled the ambience of the forum, and were muttered among the vendors as they traded their wares._

_Two weeks after the purported fall, there was a riot — torches lit, crowds marching down the streets, shouting, seeking answers. Your mother forbade you or your siblings from joining, and she barred the door and lit incense and implored you to say your prayers, drown out the chanting. You heard, later on, that they were set on entering the main temple, confronting the Pontifex and determining what had happened._

_There was nothing the next morning. No torches, no graffiti, not even a footprint. Your friend Marcus had mentioned joining the crowd. After that night, you never saw him again._

_The Praetorians were good at keeping the streets clean, your father always said._

_There were talks of war — with the Saradominists, with the papacy, with the enemies of the empire in general. You were young, then, and you sat eagerly at the table with your uncle Lucius and babbled of the epics you’d heard in school._

_“It will be a splendid little war,” you said. “The heathens are no match for all the men in the empire, are they? We’ll show them the might of our forces — it’ll be good for morale, and it’ll all be done by Terminalia.”_

_Lucius, however, who had been in the later Kharid campaigns, got that hunted look in his eyes._

_“No war is splendid, Quintus,” he’d said. “There’s no glory in blood and dust and ruin. Not even for the victor.”_

_You didn’t believe that, either, even when the food prices rose and you couldn’t buy vanilla and they started making shows at the theatre free, if only for the distraction. Everywhere you walked, you saw and heard it — the glory of fighting for the empire. All the_ recitationes _, eventually, turned to the old war poems, and all the performances were about battle heroes like Azzanadra and Balustan._

_By the time the recruiter came around, you were itching at the heels. It wasn’t as if there was anything left for you in the city, anyways; Father was mentioning a short trip to Kharyrll while things settled down, and it was a good a time as any to join the military._

_And then there was that night everything went to hell._

_So much of it, you tried to forget, but it remained burned into your heart and mind. You woke to the smell of smoke — outside, there were flickers of orange and red, and everything was hot and dry and choking, baking your skin into parchment._

_Your father was shouting, running around and gathering papers. Telling you and Aelia to take only the essentials. Eligius, barreling in with the sword, blood running down his arm as he shouted about insurgents._

_Your little sister, inconsolable, crying and curled up on the floor as the only home she knew burned around her…_

_You don’t know how you did it. Your body and brain just went numb, as though your consciousness went elsewhere and everything else was just on autopilot. You remember your father’s face as you said a fleeting, cold goodbye. Aelia having to be torn away from you, as your brother handed you a gladius and dragged you to the barracks…_

_Then the evacuation. The shouting, the weeping, the books and tapestries and clothing strewn in the street as people abandoned their belongings and ran for their lives. Livestock shrieking in their pens. Dogs running wild, seeking their fleeing masters. The inhuman howls, piercing through the smoke, sending fear down your back as the stench of burning plaster filled your nose. The hiss and steam as the water boiled in the fountains…_

_And then the long march down to Kharid-Et, not allowed to look behind you at the scorched city, at the place you once called home, while a helmet two times large for your head rattled about you like an endless shrill drum…_

Dulce et decorum est, _the old songs said. But now, those words tasted bitter in your mouth._  
  
---  
Talk to Curator (coming soon)


	136. Continue (7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Be Quintus (again)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/67627630).

It’s seldom that you’ve woken up beside another person, close as this is; your trysts from your wilder days in Senntisten nearly always departed before dawn. 

Not so, now. Whether he did so consciously or in his sleep, Ozan has curled his arms around you, trapping you firmly in his embrace. Your head is tucked under his chin, and he’s warm; warm, and smelling of spice and sand, and his heart beats slowly. 

You have no idea what time it is. It’s light, so it’s the morning, at the very least; but you have absolutely no desire to extricate yourself from your current position. 

So instead, you wriggle a little closer to him, curling one arm over his back and squeezing. He mumbles something in his sleep, digging his nose in your hair. 

This, you admit, is very nice. 

* * *

You don’t know how long you doze for; only that you’re roused sometime later, this time by a sharp wooden knocking not far from your bed. 

You sit up, blearily. Leela is standing in the doorway, a single, elegant eyebrow raised. 

“Are you decent?” she says.

You redden. “What do you want?”

“Ali wishes to speak to you. I suggest you put some dressings on —” again with the eyebrow “— before you see him.”

You wait until she departs before you flop back on the bed with a groan. Perhaps you can stay up here a little longer…

“You should go,” a muffled voice from next to you says. You turn just in time to see Ozan propping himself up on his elbow, a soft smile gracing his countenance. 

“I’ve been awake for some time,” he says. “I did not want to disturb you.”

Your face reddens even further. “Please don’t —”

“Shh. I wanted to.” His hand finds yours under the blankets and gives it a little squeeze. “Speak to Ali. They don’t call him ‘the Wise’ for nothing. I won’t go anywhere.”

You return his easy smile, and, impulsively, lean forward to kiss his brow. It’s quick, but anything more, and you may stay longer than you intend.

Dressing quickly, you hurry downstairs to find who you presume to be Ali sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of that wretched brown stuff that you had to the misfortune of imbibing not the day before. 

When he spots you, he nods, extending an arm. “Quintus,” he greets. “My name likely precedes me, so I won’t introduce myself.”

His Infernal is... _ good. _ Impeccable, in fact. His enunciation is spot on, and his accent, while not quite matching yours, reminds you of Infernal Proper — spoken only in the upper echelons of Senntisten. 

Bewildered, you stick out a hand. To your surprise, he takes your forearm, giving it a firm shake before releasing it. 

“You have questions, no doubt,” he says. “Come. Let us perambulate.”

You tense. He  _ seems _ like a kindly old man drinking coffee, who so happens to have a perfect grasp on a long-dead language and customs unknown to this heathen world. Then again, as you’ve been taught oh-so-roughly and oh-so-continuously, things in this time and place are not as they seem. 

Nonetheless, something about this so-called ‘Ali the Wise’ makes you trust him. So, despite the trepidation prickling down your back, you follow him out the door and to the town beyond. 

It’s cooler today; there are a few clouds converging overhead, making you wonder if it will rain. You hope so — the heat and the dryness are starting to drive you a little mad. 

You walk in silence for a time, sand crunching softly under your feet as you walk. Malformed questions bob to the top of your thoughts, only to be crushed away by the quiet and your doubts.

He stops at the fountain. The square is empty, soundless, save for the burbling of the water. 

“I will do my best to answer your inquiries,” he says. “But it may take some time. And there are some things better seen than explained.”

He pauses. “I know you are not from this time. The mechanics of what brought you here… I do not understand them exactly. The things of the Zarosian empire have been buried by time and her enemies, but they have not vanished entirely.”

As he says this, there’s glint in his eye. Fleeting. Almost undetectable. But it’s enough to turn that feeling of trepidation into one of fear. 

You swallow. “What do you mean?”

He withdraws something from the pack at his waist, which turns out to be a waterskin, and hands it to you. “Follow me.”

The more rational part of your brain is screaming at you, but your legs don’t seem to be getting the  _ commentarius. _ This is how you find yourself following Ali into the desert, on the familiar path Leela had brought you on. 

Ali is walking a little faster now, and you jog lightly to keep up, your still-sore legs protesting. 

“There are bandits —” you warn, but he shakes his head. 

“Those have been… managed,” he says. Something about the way he says this prompts you to not question it. 

You walk for some time. The overcast continues to darken, and the air continues to cool. The longer you go on, the colder you feel. The wind is rising as well, whipping the loose clothing you have on into a frenzy and throwing stinging grains of sand against your skin. Still, you persist, fighting through the gusts to your unknown destination. 

Soon, you see it: The pyramid from the day before. The energy you saw is more easily visible against the dark clouds, and you can see all four points at each corner of the square:

Black. Grey. Pale blue. Red. The faint smell of ozone, accentuated by the oncoming rain…

This is old magic. You detected it yesterday, just before you were distracted by those desert vagabonds. Now you can see it in its full glory — and it seems stronger than ever before. 

Your eyes widen, and you stand, gawping, at the sight above you. “I…”

“This way!” Ali says, heading towards the pyramid. Gormless, you follow. The pyramid itself is ancient, sandblasted and surreal, but Ali navigates it with ease; he touches a brick in the countless rows, same as all the others, and something shifts in the edifice. The wall rumbles, and a section of stonework pulls away, revealing a passage in the side. 

“This way!” he shouts over the wind, before ducking inside. You follow suit, grateful for the protection against the storm; as you do, you hear the shrapnel sound of rain begin to fall outside, hammering against the sand and the stone with ferocious force. 

It’s dark and musty, smelling of old rooms and musty books and incense. For some reason, it makes your hair stand on end. 

Ali is shuffling ahead of you, flicking a fire spell into his hands. Shadows dance against the walls, following both of you as you make your way down the passages, your feet catching on imperfections on the floor. 

“Ali,” you say, you voice tight. “Where are we going?”

“Patience,” he replies. “This place was once a prison. An amber trap for something far older than you. But if my thesis is correct…”

This, of course, does nothing to ease your nerves. Nevertheless, you persist, even with your continuously stubbed feet, nose tickled by the dust, and the growing feeling that you should have stayed in bed this morning. 

There’s light up ahead, against the one Ali is currently wielding. You squint, trying to make out what it is — 

And then you’re stumbling into a room not much larger than a modest  _ tablina _ , occupied only by a couple of small statues — one of them broken and tipped over — and a little altar. You notice, with a skip in your heartbeat, that it is adorned with a simple, yet achingly familiar sign of Zaros.

The old smell is overwhelming here, as is the overtone of ozone. There is magic here; residual, clinging to the walls, crawling over your skin and leaving a static stickiness. 

Something in your gut tugs, causing a wave of nausea to overcome you, and your knees buckle. Ali moves quickly, catching you before you collapse to the floor. 

“You feel it, don’t you? This here, too, is a place stuck out of time,” he says, nodding gravely. “As I said, it is a prison — a place untouched by history or chronological passing. As such, it pulls to where it once was.”

“What do you mean?” you gasp, the air in your lungs suddenly feeling heavier than before. 

“You are being pulled back by your time. Think it like gelatin - it recalls its shape. Your body — and this place — remembers where it once came from.”

The sensation of lightheadedness now joins the array of overwhelming sensations now wracking you, and you struggle to make sense of his words. “Why…” you mumble. “Why did you bring me here…?”

Ali shuffles in his bag once more and retrieves a jar. In it, blinking faintly, you see a familiar point of light; a flicker, light blue, exactly the same as the little sprite you encountered in your prison in Kharid-et. 

“With this,” Ali says, “and the magic remaining here… I believe, Quintus, I may be able to send you home.”  
  
---  
Continue (Coming soon)


	137. Turn Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Venture Onwards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/65648206).

You stumble on through the desert, now with a distinct goal in mind and in sight. You still can't tell how tall that tower is, but it certainly looks like it'll provide _some_ protection from the elements... even with no discernible roof.

Meanwhile, the river seemingly alongside it is looking like less and less of a mirage. You don't dare hope that it's true, though, staggering on through the unfathomable heat until it's barely twenty feet away... at which point you stop dead still, stare at the glistening ripples just a second longer, and charge headlong right into it with a surge of energy you didn't know you had.

You splash into the _infinitely_ cool water, half tripping over your own feet and newly-sodden robes; you dunk your head into the surface again and again and again, soaking every patch of parched skin until you feel utterly waterlogged. You swallow gulps of river water, and don't care about the scratch of carried sand on the way down your throat -- the water's fresh and sweet and beautiful, and you've missed it so, so much. Kharid-et was hot and humid, never truly _dry_ \-- you never want to feel that kind of dehydration ever again.

Is it possible to get drunk on water? You might just have managed it.

You stand up on the riverbed, feeling the lazy flow of it meander around your soggy robes, and enjoy the slight breeze on your wet skin. You feel a little sick, and that's threatening to become more than a little, but... you're alive, and for now, that's enough.

You just barely catch sight of a large, nasty-looking lizard on the opposite bank of the river. That sobers up your water-drunkenness more than quickly enough: you decide it's high time to high tail it out of the water, off to that big imposing tower over there.

Pulling up your dripping robe as you go, you approach... whatever kind of place this is. Something about it has you seriously questioning your decision to head this way. Is it the erratic slabs of dark stone, snaking up along the height of the tower and jutting out over your head? Is it the way its base curves in above you, swallowing all vision around or behind it? Is it the way the colours of its brick seem so rich and deep and smooth, no trace of sandblasting to them, despite there being no other signs of life anywhere near this thing?

Well... you've come all this way. You make your way through the dark doorway.  
  
---  
[Enter Tower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/71401743#workskin)


	138. Enter Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from [Turn Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456185/chapters/71401668).

It's cool in here -- _cold_ , even, to an extent that begins to chill you through your robes. You weren't expecting quite this large an open space: every tiny movement in here seems to come with a sound of its own, and each of those sounds echoes continuously around the chamber.

There is one clear central focus of the room: the large carved face directly ahead of you. Its design is conspicuously Menaphite, which even someone like you can recognise, and you're two seconds from deciding you'd best turn back after all when --

**Speak, mortal. What is your purpose here?**

You're shaken. You _felt_ those words instead of hearing them, yet they seem to echo all the same.

"I..."

It feels so strange to talk, first and foremost, and more so to be doing so to a seemingly empty room. You come to a conspicuous halt just as soon as you began.

**Surely you must have some purpose. Mortals always do.**

Do _you_ , though? You've ended up in completely unfamiliar surroundings -- you found some form of friendship, only to abandon it the second it turned sour for you. You ran off in search of... anything, really. And what you've found is certainly something, though what _kind_ of something is excruciatingly unclear.

"I needed shelter," is what you eventually settle on. It's about as simple a truth as you can get lately.

**That is rare. Most come here seeking fame or riches, but you are not the first in pursuit of something simpler. Take whatever shelter you need, it is of no concern to me.**

You do.

You seat yourself on the floor for a second, but find yourself shivering altogether far too quickly. For all the exertion you put into finding this place, you feel you might have been better off staying outside.

Would you, though?

The idea of having a purpose... well, it's something you don't feel very much these days. Any notion of purpose in the army was always held by someone several miles above your station; you, on the other hand, had no goal apart from merely staying alive. The circumstances may have changed dramatically, but here and now, your goal is exactly the same.

As you sit and shiver, huddled close against a pillar, your thoughts curve back to a point you've revisited many times in your life:

_There has to be more than this._

But what? Fame and riches? What does that mean when your home is a cinder and your world is at war? What does that mean in the middle of some desert, with nothing but a damn crocodile-infested river?

You draw your knees up tight, and clutch them close to you. With more than a touch of bitterness, you think, insatiable with ever-accelerating dread.. Sure, at one point _fame and riches_ would have drawn you like a moth to a flame. But now? What does any of it mean?

"Why?" you find yourself asking, not expecting any response.

Regardless, though: **You would do well to be less vague.**

Are you doing this? Explaining your crisis, here and now, to a massive talking stone face?

Fine, then. "Why go after fame and riches? It's not like they mean anything any more. Nothing does."

**I have wondered this myself. Mortals are unfathomable.**

You think back to how you left the temple and the troubadours alike. You'll never forget the sheer resentment in Catherina's look... but equally, you can't believe what an idiot you were.

_Mortals are unfathomable, alright._

You sit for a minute longer, still simmering in angst, but largely overwhelmed by your own boredom.

"Perhaps it's better than nothing," you say.  
  
---  
Pursue Fame and Glory (?) (coming soon)   
  
****


End file.
